You Jump, I Jump
by DREAMIRIS
Summary: John and Mike win two tickets aboard Titanic which is bound for the States. During the journey on the dream ship, he meets the love of his life. A Sherlock fic set in Titanic AU.
1. All Set For The Journey

**A/N:** It just popped into my head when I was watching the movie yesterday for the hundredth time, and somehow it seemed to sort of click!

Sorry, but I didn't want to mess with the dates. Titanic is a historic thing and so, I'm setting this fic in 1912. They're setting sail from Southampton with New York City as the destination, same as in the original voyage,

I must be mad... that's right! I AM!

* * *

Southampton, England, April 10, 1912, 11:35 am

The gleaming black and white body of the gigantic White Star Line leviathan called the RMS Titanic stands beyond the rails, ready for her maiden voyage. Some say that she is unsinkable. God himself could not sink the ship. A crowd of hundreds, consisting of numerous White Star Line officials, tearful family members and joyful youths blacken the pier next to Titanic like ants on a jelly sandwich. Crewmen move across the deck, dwarfed by the enormous size of the steamer.

She is a gorgeous thing, the 'ship of the dreams', designed so that none could challenge its might. She is said to be the largest thing ever made by human hands and the most luxurious cruise in the whole world. First class ticket holders board the massive thing via an elevated boarding bridge, very keen to avoid the smelly press of the dockside crowd. People down, mostly third class passengers crane their neck upwards, trying to take in her sheer size at one glance and failing at it.

"Big boat, huh?" Says a humbly-dressed man to his little daughter, both looking with awe at the ship.

"Daddy, it's a ship!" she shakes her head at her daddy's stupidity.

On the pier, there appear two handsome cars, moving slowly through the dense crowd. The driver of the first car rushes to pull one of its doors open, revealing a tall handsome young man, dressed in a finely cut black two-piece suit, shiny leather shoes and gloved palms. Dark chocolate coloured curls rest nonchalantly on his head and he's unwilling to hide them under a bowler hat clutched in his right hand. His eyes are grey and piercing as he surveys the commotion around him with disdain, appearing completely unfazed by the awesome size of the Titanic. His face is long and angular, with razor sharp cheekbones gleaming as the rays of the sun partially covered behind clouds hit his face, giving him a regal appearance.

A personal valet opens the door on the other side of the car. A man, at least twenty five, emerges, looking splendid in a grey three-piece suit and a bowler hat, looking up at the ship like a father looks at his son who just made him the proudest man in the world. He reeks of Alpha arrogance and money beyond imagination. There's a handsome, excessively polished wooden stick in his hands. He checks his pocket watch. They were almost late.

"I don't see what all the fuss is about," he tells the older man, his voice rich and deep for a seventeen year old, "Yes, it may look like an extra ninety feet longer than the Mauretania, but that's something hardly worth changing the reservations at the last moment."

The older man rolls his eyes dramatically, "You can blase about some things, Sherlock, but not Titanic! Not just over a hundred feet long, but far more luxurious. It has squash courts, swimming pools, a Parisian cafe... even Turkish baths," he speaks as if he were the ship's promoter.

The young man called Sherlock walks away, refusing the hand that the older man offers him, as soon as he hears about the various features of the ship that he isn't interested in. The Alpha simply shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders at another man descending from the car behind him. He smiles pleasantly at him. He is completely alien from his little brother, and complies very cheerfully with the societal norms dictated for Alphas and Omegas.

"Your brother is much too hard to impress, Mycroft. Uh, mind your step."

"So, this is the ship that they call unsinkable?"

"Yes," the Alpha raises his voice loud enough for both the brothers to hear, "Even God himself cannot sink it if he wanted to."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and walks away, with Mycroft close behind him. Their valet and a maid emerge behind them, stunned into inaction by the massive ship they were going to stay in for the next one week. A White Star Line porter scurries towards them, seemingly harassed by their last minute boarding.

"Sir, you'll have to check your baggage through the main terminal, through that way-"

His eyes dilate as the Alpha thrusts a five pound note into his hands, "I put my faith in you, good sir!" He indicates towards his valet, "See my man," he dismisses him as the porter thanks him profusely. The valet, a tough, dour ex-Pinkerton cop, drags him away, showing him the overwhelming amount of luggage. They were emigrating to America, taking all their belongings with them.

The Alpha breezes on, leaving the minions to scuttle about and enjoying the effect of money on the good masses. He leads the two men, taking Sherlock's hand in his possessively. The young man tries to extract himself from his grip, "Victor! Let me check whether my Chemistry set-"

The Alpha called Victor Trevor, heir to the elder Trevor's gold mines in California, lets him shoot away and give the instructions to their maid/housekeeper/cook, making sure that she handles his delicate equipment carefully.

"We better hurry up. We're already late."

He indicates the way towards the first class gangway. They move out of the crowd. Mrs. Hudson, the Holmes' maid/housekeeper/cook, and Andrea, Mycroft Holmes' personal secretary, hustle behind them. Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock are carrying his Chemistry set. The Holmes were one of the most reputed families in South England, very rich and the owner of the several indigo plantations across India and the Caribbean Islands. Then, Germany came up with synthetic indigo and their businesses shut down rapidly, causing the elder Holmes to put a pistol in his mouth the previous year. Andrea was a personal secretary for namesake. Or until the distant future if Mycroft Holmes ever decided to go back into industry business.

Sherlock's marriage to Victor was supposed to straighten things for the Holmes family, give them economic stability. To them, it was merely a contract to ensure their survival.

The young man observes every single action taking place on the pier, from the health inspection queue to the other quintessential upper class families, not unlike themselves, boarding the cruise. Not much of interest, he decides, before turning his attention back to the snobbish Alpha in front of him.

"Here, let me help you with that, sweetpea."

Sherlock frowns at the nickname and pulls his things away from Victor adamantly, like a petulant child. He is a child in many ways, extremely stubborn and rebellious, although he knows that their current situation is precarious and he doesn't let Victor see even a shadow of his inherent craziness.

"I love it when you make that face," Victor winks at him, and picks up most of his luggage. Sherlock walks away, furious that his efforts at driving him away do not work properly and joins his brother. Victor smiles knowingly and dumps all the equipment on Mrs. Hudson's shoulders, freeing himself to admire the splendid liner.

"Honestly, Victor!" Mycroft turns to him, "If you weren't forever booking everything at the last moment, we could have gone through the terminal instead of running along the dock like some squalid immigrant family."

Sherlock does not understand his brother. They weren't any less broke. Why did he have to act like he was the master of the universe?

"All part of the charm, Mycroft. At any rate, it was my darling fiancee's rituals which made us late."

"You should have informed me two days earlier that we were going to America. I would have packed all this stuff beforehand. What do you expect me to do for one full week with less than 300 metres of length?"

Sherlock knew why he hadn't been informed. He had once tried to run away from home shortly after he had become engaged to Victor. Mycroft did not want a repeat of that.

"Here I've pulled every string I could to book us on the grandest ship in history, in her most luxurious suites... and you act as if you're going to your execution."

Sherlock looks up as the hull of Titanic looms over them...a great iron wall, Bible black and severe. Victor motions him forward, his hand in his, and he enters the gangway to the D Deck doors with a sense of overwhelming dread.

It was a ship of dreams to everyone else... but to him, it was a slave ship, taking him away from the country he loved to America in chains of matrimony. Outwardly, he was everything a well brought up Omega could aspire to be. On the inside, he was screaming.

* * *

The steamer's whistle blows across Southampton. In a pub, there's a very serious game going on, two Swedish men, thirtyish, on one side, a handsome blond and a red, slightly chubby guy, both English and just twenty, on the other side of the round table, all dressed in worker class' clothes. They're playing poker, and two third class tickets to the RMS Titanic have been bet along with the shiny pennies.

The English guys exchange glances as a sullen argument in Swedish is happening across the table.

"Hit me again, Sven," says the blond. He takes a card and slips it into his hand. The fellow named Sven looks at him, failing to deduce anything from his poker face.

The red guy licks his lips, and he clearly is very adept at giving away his inner thoughts.

The Titanic's whistle blows again. Final warning.

"What if we lose, huh?" says he to his blond friend.

"When we've got nothing, we have nothing to lose. Okay then. Showdown, boys," the blond looks at them unnervingly, "Someone's life's about to change."

The red bloke puts his cards down. So do the Swedes. He keeps his close.

"Hmm... let's see, Mike's got nothing. Olaf has nothing too. Sven... uh, oh, two pair... shit... Sorry Mike"

The Swedes look victorious for a moment. Mike is furious, "What sorry? How dare you lose my money? Did- did you bet all of it-?"

"Sorry that you're not going to be able to see your mother for a very, very long time becaaaause..."

He slaps down his hand on the table, revealing a full house, "...Cause, we're going to America! Full house, boys! Woohoo!"

Mike screams out in delight, "Yeah!" He pulls the blond guy into a crushing hug, "I love you, John! Love you! We're going to America!" He presses a kiss to John's cheeks in happiness.

"Okay, okay," John pushes him away, "Too much happy, too much happy, Mike...!"

Olaf grabs John by the collar. For one second, it looks like he's going to punch John right in the face. John screws up his features in the anticipation of the blow, but Olaf's fist turns at the last moment and collides with Sven's jaw, making him topple out of the chair. John and Mike laugh gleefully, and John climbs on his friend's back, demanding to be paraded around the smoky pub like some sort of local hero.

"Yeah... we're going to America," Mike sings, kissing the two tickets and stuffing them in his pocket, "To the home o' the free and the land o' real hot dogs! And on Titanic! We're royalty now, John!"

"No mate," the barkeeper points at the clock, "Titanic go to America. In five minutes." It was five minutes to twelve. They glance out of the small window. Sure enough, the steamer's all set to leave, billowing out thick black clouds of sooty smoke.

"Shit! Come one, Mike!" They stuff all the coins into their bags and pockets and make a run for the door, determined to catch the luxury steamer. John comes to a dead stop when he sees the hull of the huge ship. Mike runs back and grabs John, almost dragging him to the bottom of the boarding ramp, as soon as it is detached from the gangway doors.

"Hey, hey, hey!" John cries out, "Wait, we're passengers!"

The guard officer looks at him like he doesn't believe them. Upon producing the tickets, he casts his eyes over them, "You gone through the health inspection queue?"

"Yeah, of course!" he lies convincingly, and then adopts a very horrible American accent, "We're Americans, dude! Both of us!"

"Doesn't sound like one to me," he replies testily, but lets them come aboard anyway.

Mike and John hug again, "We're the luckiest sons of bitches in the whole world, John!"

"I hear you!"

John and Mike burst through a door onto the aft well deck. They get to the rail and John starts to yell and wave to the crowd on the dock. Mike looks surprised.

"You know somebody?"

"Of course not. But that's not the point. Goodbye, y'all!"

Mike clambers onto the rails as well, following John and waving furiously, revelling in the exhilaration of the moment, "Bye bye, I'll miss you all very much! I'll never forget you!"

The crowd of the cheering well-wishers waves back as the black wall of Titanic moves away from them, tugged by small boats. They feel the engines starting, initiating the steady vibrations. The two men keep on waving until they're tired enough to retreat back to their quarters.

* * *

"This one's it, John!" Mike pushes open the door to reveal two more Swedes sitting and talking in low voices. They look at the newcomers, wondering where their friend was. John shakes hands with them, introducing himself and then turns to find that Mike had already occupied the top bunk.

"Who says you get top bunk, huh?"

"Hey, my name starts with 'S', yours with 'W', so I get top bunk. Didn't they teach you this in school?"

"Wanker!" John aims a punch at his friend's face but turns away at the last moment, "Wanna see the view from the bow part? I bet there'll be whales there!"

* * *

Victor traipses around the private promenade deck of the "Millionaire Suite", comprising of two bedrooms, a bath, a wardrobe room and a tastefully decorated sitting room. Sherlock is busy setting up his experiment apparatus in his room, running from one place to another. Mrs. Hudson helps him. She's very fond of him, and has looked after him right from his childhood like a mother. Even Sherlock's very fond of her, although he tries his best not to show it in any way. Victor's valet is ordering the room service and the porters around, putting each thing in its place.

"This is your private promenade deck sir," says the butler, "Would you be requiring anything, sir?"

Victor dismisses him with a wave of the tulip-shaped wineglass in his hand. The butler gives him a short bow and retreats away. Mycroft has his separate suite so that Sherlock and Victor could spend some time together, although, at the former's fervent request, they have separate bedrooms. As for Sherlock, he was more than happy not to have been stuck with his brother in the same suite for seven days.

"Oh, no!" the Alpha's voice travels over through the room and reaches Sherlock sitting on his new bed, "Not those stupid experiments again! Sweetpea, you know that if you blow something up, I'll have to reimburse the whole amount!"

Sherlock appears at the doorway, looking extremely busy, "I'm your fiancee, darling. You'll have to pay, won't you?" There's an underlying mockery in the way he says 'fiancee' and 'darling', something Victor chooses not to see, "And my experiments are quite safe, I assure you. I _never_ blow anything up!"

Victor leans against the doorframe and sips his wine, leering at him, "Your brother doesn't agree with you, dear."

"Does he ever?"

Victor and his valet share a laugh, "Pretty tough for an Omega, huh?"

"Oh, you have no idea. He doesn't even know that it makes him look more adorable!"

He walks into Sherlock's bedroom, where Mrs. Hudson is bombarding him with her endless chatter, "It's all so new... the sheets have never been slept in and I can still smell the paint. Like they built it all for us. I mean... just to think that when I crawl between the sheets tonight, I'll be the first-"

Victor bites his lower lip as Sherlock turns to face him, "And when _I_ crawl between the sheets tonight, I'll still be the first."

Sherlock turns away, clearly uncomfortable by the innuendo. Mrs. Hudson blushes a little and excuses herself out of the room as Victor advances over to his fiancee and wraps his arms around his waist. It is an act of possession, not of intimacy. He presses a kiss onto Sherlock's pale neck and whispers, his hot breath making the Omega's breath hitch against his wishes, "The first and the only. _Forever."_ He turns him around and looks into Sherlock's pale eyes before claiming his lips for himself.

Sherlock does not kiss back. He never does. His eyes stay open. Dead and impassive.

* * *

**E/N:** Sorry if the chapter seems a little too descriptive... I just can't shake the image of Titanic looming over all the people out of my head.


	2. Colpo Di Fulmine

**Summary: **John meets Sherlock for the first time.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm not going to mess with the real characters on the Titanic such as Mr. Andrews or Molly Brown either. I figured that it'll be dishonouring their memory if I substitute them with fictional characters.

This one's a massive chapter, for obvious reasons.

The Chapter title is in Italian, meaning 'thunderbolt'. Course, love strikes John like lightning, thunder blah, blah, blah... sickeningly poetic, I know! Forgive me, I can be very pathetic sometimes.

I gave Anthea some of Rose' dresses, seeing as they would be useless to Sherlock.

* * *

"She is the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history, and our master shipbuilder here, Mr. Andrews designed her from the keel plates up."

Mr. J. Bruce Ismay, managing director of White Star Line, is seated at the head of the table with Victor, Sherlock, Mycroft, Andrea and a woman called Margaret 'Molly' Brown. He indicates them to a handsome fortyish Beta sitting to the Molly's right, smiling modestly at them. The group are having their lunch and are talking about the ship's grandeur, surrounded by the soft creamy light of the afternoon filtering in through the high arched windows. Sherlock, although very disinterested in the ship's luxurious features, is quite keen to know more about its design and engineering, and upon insisting, is promised a complete tour of vessel, including the engine room and the captain's quarters.

A waiter attends to Andrea. She is clad in a long pale green tea dress, with a torrid red sash worn on her waist, her fair hands covered in white gloves. Her hair is tied up in a loose bun with artfully careless curls draped along her neck. A single diamond pendant, matching with the hue of her dress, hangs from a slender silver chain. She's beautiful and blends in perfectly with the other high class people of the room.

Seated next to her is Margaret Brown, a.k.a the 'Unsinkable Molly Brown', looked down upon by the other members of the club. Her husband had struck gold someplace out west, and she was what most of the narrow-minded upper class called 'new money'. She's wearing a enormous feathered hat and a black dress. She's following Mr. Ismay's every word closely while keeping an eye on the dynamic between Sherlock and Victor.

Seated on other end of the table and next to Andrea and Sherlock is Mycroft Holmes, constantly supervising his little brother's conduct. Sherlock and Victor and seated side by side on the other side of the table. Sherlock is hooked onto every word of Mr. Andrews, while Victor is mildly interested, talking more to Colonel Gracie about how the newest industrial policies regarding the safety of workers in the mines were wreaking havoc on the healthy economic growth of the nation. All the men are dressed in black with the exception of Mr. Ismay.

To Molly's right is the shipbuilder Thomas Andrews, an Irish engineer of the Harland and Wolff Shipbuilders. He is very modest about his great achievement and tells their group about the ship like a schoolmaster teaching his students.

"Well, I may have put her together, but the idea was Mr. Ismay's. He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in her appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is, willed into solid reality."

"And with a mortifying turning radius!" Sherlock mutters under his breath. Mycroft almost misses his aim with the fork, causing Sherlock to smirk up at him followed by a grimace as he feels a kick under the table.

"Hear, hear!" Everyone raise their glasses to Mr. Andrews in a gesture of hearty congratulations. Victor just manages to grab his as they all put their glasses down. He returns back to his conversation.

"Why're ships always bein' called 'she'?" Molly is a tough talking straightshooter and very feminist in her ideas, "Is it because men think half the women around here have big sterns and should be weighed in tonnage?"

All of them except Victor and Mycroft laugh good-naturedly at that.

"Just another example of Alphas settin' the rules their way."

The waiter arrives at the other side of the table, ready to take orders. Sherlock lights a cigarette. Mycroft casts a furtive glance at all the participants of the conversation. They do not appear scandalised at the sight of an Omega smoking.

"You know people don't like that, Sherlock," he says sternly.

Victor and Sherlock both turn to him. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at him and blows the smoke in his brother's face masterfully. He tries to stifle his coughing behind the tablecloth.

"He knows." Victor takes the cigarette from him and stubs it out before turning to the waiter. He takes the liberty to order for Sherlock as well, asserting his Alpha dominance, "We'll both have the lamb. Rare, with a little mint sauce."

Sherlock stares at him, outraged at the false sense of entitlement that Victor assumes, but doesn't say anything. After a moment of consideration, the Alpha turns to him, "You like lamb, don't you sweetpea?"

There's no point in the seeking the Omega's opinion. It is simply a display of the faux-considerate nature that Victor does not possess. Sherlock smiles sweetly at him and looks away. His eyes lock onto those of Molly Brown, who understands his dilemma perfectly well. He isn't seeking for sympathy or reassurance. He just wants a way out. At this moment, with a deck circumference of about only one mile and endless ocean surrounding them, there's no way out. She decides to come to his rescue, however little it might be.

"You gonna cut his meat for him there too, Vic?"

Victor flashes a threatening smirk at her, the sort that said '_this is none of your business_'. She looks amused and steers the direction of the tension away to the topic of talk, "Hey, who came up with the name 'Titanic'? Was it you, Bruce?"

Mr. Ismay looks very smug, "Well, yes... actually. I wanted to convey sheer size. And size means stability, luxury... and above all, strength."

The explanation makes him a victim of Sherlock's bad mood. He smiles very politely, "Have you heard of Dr. Freud? His ideas about the Alpha preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you, Mr. Ismay."

Molly and Mr. Andrews give him a winning smile as they continue their lunch. Mycroft beautifully manages to look aloof as he chokes on his breadstick.

"Excuse me," Sherlock pushes his chair back noisily as he rises and walks out of the lunchroom. Victor looks very irritated. Mr. Ismay and Mr. Andrews try to acknowledge his leave, whilst the former looks quite affronted at his incomplete knowledge about a Dr. Freud.

"He's one pistol, Vic," Molly flashes his smirk back at him, "Hope you can handle him."

Victor chews the insides of his cheeks in silent tension as he feigns unconcern, "Well, I may have to start minding what he reads from now on won't I, Mrs. Brown?"

He believes that the argument is won, that dominance is the only answer to Sherlock's general offending conduct. Molly inwardly shakes her head at how ignorant he is.

"Freud, who is he? Is he a passenger?"

* * *

John is sitting on a bench on the deck in the sun, reading a book while Mike and a young English emigrant are playing a game of cards. It is a medical journal. John always wanted to be a doctor and help people get well all over the world. None of that became possible till now. His only hope was to go to America and study medicine somehow. He studies whenever he gets free time. There's the same working class father standing beside him by the rails, his little daughter in his arms, clutching a doll to her chest. He is showing her seagulls. John watches them for some time, remembering his own father, before turning his attention to a crew member walking three dogs on the deck, shooing people away.

"That's typical," the English fellow scowls at them, drinking a generous amount of smoke into his lungs, "First class dogs come down here to take a shite!"

John shrugs his shoulders, "Lets us know where we rank in the scheme of things."

The former smiles, "Yeah. Like we could ever forget. I'm Greg Lestrade."

"John Watson."

"And I'm Mike. Hi!"

"Hello. So, you want to be a doctor, huh?" says he to John, indicating the black and white anatomy figures on the journal.

John does not reply. The crease between his brows disappear. He straightens up as he stares at Sherlock's tall regal figure leaning against the rails. His mouth hangs slightly ajar and he's unable to take his eyes off him. They're away from each other, with the well deck like a gulf between them. He's on an elevated platform, while John is looking up at him from below. Sherlock is staring down at the water, frowning, not out of a general displeasure of the sea breeze messing up his curls like he pretends to, but due to deep sadness even at so tender an age, something only John can see and has seen.

He watches him take something off his ring finger and stare at it for sometime like it was the most absurd puzzle in the whole world. John is riveted by Sherlock; the feeling in his chest hits him like lightning, sudden and strong and overwhelming.

Greg waves his hands in front of him, trying to recapture his attention, "Hey, boyo!"

John pushes his hand away. Sherlock looks like a figure from a romantic novel, sad and melancholy. Mike and Greg laugh.

"Forget it, mate! You'd as like have angels fly outta yer arse as get next to the likes of an Omega like him!"

He's an Omega, John notes absently. The angular face, the cultivated grace gives it all away, like on display in a museum.

John does not pay attention as he continues watching him, thrown in a trance. Sherlock suddenly turns towards them and John is caught staring. The Omega looks harassed, for the lack of a better word, but John doesn't look away. Sherlock dismisses him like any ordinary person, who just happened to glance at him the same moment he did. John does not give up. He continues watching him and Sherlock turns to look sideways at him again, realising that he had been staring at him all along. He's removed from his thoughts momentarily as their eyes meet across the space of the well deck, across the gulf between their worlds.

John sees a taller, immaculately dressed man come up to him, grabbing his arm and confronting him. Alpha. John realises that he's already Bonded to him, or at least promised to him. But that does not stop him from watching the couple argue over something, and the Omega storming away inside. John stares after him, inwardly cursing the Alpha for driving him away from him. Sherlock has already forgotten about the glances that he had caught with the poor young Alpha sitting below on the deck.

John stares after him, wishing he could bring a smile to that face.

* * *

Sherlock is sitting in the dining saloon, with Mycroft and Victor on his side. He's staring at the modest portion of the pork roast served to him on the gleaming china in front of him. The dinner jacket is a little tight at his shoulders, making his back feel itchy. Mycroft, unlike his little brother, could mingle effortlessly, gulping down copious amounts of food and wine down his throat and engaging in the mindless prattle of the upper class men and women. A lot of people are congratulating Victor on his engagement to Sherlock. As for the Omega, he's nowhere, not at the dinner table, not in the ship, not back in his London home, not even in his mind. He sits there, camouflaged by the glimmer of the first class. He could predict his whole life. An endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches, and always the same batch of narrow people and the same monotonous banter.

He often felt like he was standing on the edge of a great waterfall, with no one to pull him back if he strayed into it, no one who cared... He'd pass out of existence and no one would ever notice.

The melodious strains of the violin reach his ears and his fingers twitch uncontrollably. Cheerful music only made the whole atmosphere more dreary. The band was trying so hard, yet no one listens to them, not even someone who could associate himself with them most closely.

Sherlock looks down at his hand, feeling for his pulse. An impulse rushes through him, a flash, but he refuses to act on it. Here would only give rise to drama and not the outcome that he wanted. He'd have to go back to the privacy of his own suite.

"May I escort you back to the cabin, Sherlock?" Victor's hands are heavy on his shoulders. It isn't a request; it is a demand, something that Sherlock cheerfully complies to, "Yes, please."

Mycroft smiles at his future brother-in-law and continues his conversation with Mr. Ismay.

"I'll be right back, gentlemen." With that, he takes Sherlock's hand in his and together they exit the room and walk back to their cabin in tense silence. Once they reach their suite, the Alpha is about to kiss him but Sherlock places a finger on his lips, gently pushing him away, "I'll wait for you tonight," he whispers, knowing that it is the only way he can shake him off from joining their lips together. The world believed that it was scandalous to leave an Unbonded Omega with any Alpha other than a family Alpha, so he expects that this remark will leave Victor a little shocked and that he will send him away to his room with a small rebuke that he shouldn't say such things...

But Victor only smiles triumphantly, thinking that Sherlock has finally given in to him, "I won't be late. Trust me."

_You'll be too late_, he muses. He does not want the ghost of Victor's lips looming over his dead form like a terrible legacy.

Once safe inside the suite, Sherlock takes off the dinner jacket and stares at his reflection in the mirror. There's no denying that he's beautiful, exquisite. He hates his physical beauty, knowing that it is the biggest culprit behind the engagement. Had he been born ugly, he would have been abandoned, or given away to someone who saw beyond his physical form. He grabs the shoe polish and scrubs it all over the mirror, blackening his reflection, trying to make it ugly and unwanted. When it does not seem satisfactory, he flings it at it, shattering the glass. He tears the restricting waistcoat and the shirt cuffs away from him, angry and pained. With an anguished cry, he tries to take off the 12 carat pear shaped engagement ring sitting on his finger like a burden to bear. It remains stuck to him adamantly, giving away after several minutes of painful extraction. He does not want to cut open his wrists and just die. He does not want to go through the marriage in which he has no say and experience a slow death. He has had enough pain. He wants it to be quick. He wants it to be over.

* * *

John is watching the beautiful night sky. He has never seen so many stars before. Industrial London does swallow its youth in its smoke, and John is very glad to get away from the dirt and squalor of the city.

Even in the wake of the heavenly diamonds, John is lost in the thoughts of the Omega he saw during the afternoon. His medical journal is lying carelessly on his chest as he smokes cheap cigarette, thinking about the brief moment when their eyes met, and the argument with his presumptuous Alpha.

He stirs a little when he hears quick footsteps rushing towards him. A tall slender figure passes by him and John sits up to look. It is the same Omega, those distinctive curls tell him so. His breath hitches in an occasional sob, which he suppresses, and he does not look like he is about to do something very worthwhile. Alpha protective instincts stir up inside John and he follows him, folding the medical journal and sticking it inside his pocket.

Sure enough, Sherlock slams against the base of the stern flagpole and clings there, panting. He stares out at the dark, the noise of the water breaking under Titanic's superstructure deafening his ears as he sees his only way out of there. John crouches behind the deck staircase watching him, while slowly approaching the taller man.

His hands are shaking as he climbs over and turns his back to the railing, facing the blackness threatening to engulf him. The wind blows in his face, as if trying to push him back into the ship. He looks down at the ghostly, foamy trail left behind by the ship. He takes a last look at the grand majestic lady carting him off to America and leans forward, his arms straightening. He is momentarily hypnotised by the water churning beneath him. The need to escape is much greater than even caring that such an act could easily be the reason of his death. Mycroft thought that somehow dragging Sherlock onto the ship would effectively keep him locked away in chains. Oh, Mycroft was wrong. So wrong.

John advances cautiously behind him, and extends his hand to him, ready to grab him if he fell, "I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

Sherlock whips his head around at the sound of his voice. He is scared of John playing good Samaritan. A slight sniff of the air informs him that the man in front of him is an Alpha. He would do what society dictated for most Alphas, return a claimed Omega back to his partner. It is clear from his expression that he does not remember John.

"Stand back! Don't come any closer!" he almost begs.

John notices the tear tracks on his cheeks in the faint glow from the stern running lights. He has a vague idea of the reason and tries to look less imposing. Of course, his clothes help his mission a lot.

"Come on. Just give me your hand and I'll pull you back over." He extends his free hand to him.

"No. Stay where you are! I mean it! Or, I'll let go!"

John looks at him for a moment, thinking of the next best thing to say to him. His other hand holding the cigarette reaches his mouth. Sherlock looks back at him, as puts his hands up, and throws the cigarette away into the Atlantic waters. He advances the railing and deposits his hands in his pockets, looking sideways at the Omega, "No you won't."

Sherlock has stopped crying, and he frowns, "What do you mean no I won't?" He demands indignantly, "Don't presume to tell me what I will and will not do. You don't know me or what I want and do not want. You have no right over me!" He dumps all his anger, all his self-hatred misdirected at this stranger, someone who seemed to care, but someone who he dismisses as only an honourable, obligated Alpha, nothing more.

"Well, I see that you want to jump off the vessel."

"Yes, brilliant observation," Sherlock snaps, "Now be on your way and LEAVE ME ALONE!"

"Look" John approaches him cautiously, trying a reassuring smile, "I don't claim to know whatever bad's going on with you, and that this may seem like the easiest way out, but don't do this, really. Good things happen to everyone."

"Take your sermon somewhere else, mister!" Sherlock has no idea why he is still talking to this absurd fellow.

"I won a ticket here on this awesome ship, and I had no idea that this was coming. So, you might miss out on your good moments. Besides, I'm not gonna let you do this."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and almost sits over the ledge, "Do what?"

"I'm not gonna let you jump," says he, remembering the Hippocratic Oath and his dream to be a doctor and save people, but who said that he was doing it for the sake of the oath anyway.

Sherlock has never felt so annoyed in his whole life, not even when his father had said that the scientist who prepared synthetic indigo should be burned alive. He tries a newer tactic, "Who says I'm jumping?"

John frowns, "You."

Sherlock replays their conversation. He suddenly remembers that he still has tear tracks on his face, "I said that your observation skills were appalling. I didn't confirm what you said," he reaches out to wipe his face on his sleeve, only to see John about to rush forward to catch hold of him should he fall.

John looks confused, "Then what are you doing here?"

"I'm hanging off the back of the ship here because I'm bored and frustrated and because a certain idiot isn't ready to leave me alone!" Sherlock feels the breeze across his face, seemingly transfixed by the darkness ahead of him, just like his life was now. He remembers the sickening feel of Victor's lips against his and the possibility to throw up rises by a million times. He feels the air around his neck constrict as he remembers the literal and the figurative shackles of marriage choke him again, and make him wish for death. If there's one thing that redeems him, it's that Alpha's voice.

"Doesn't look like you're bored," says John softly, yet audible over the din, whilst he tries not to feel insulted by the exclamation of 'idiot'. His teachers always told him that he was very intelligent, "Not from your face at least."

Sherlock instantly composes himself. His tactics weren't working, "Okay fine. I'll tell you the real reason. I'm searching for the propellers."

"Propellers?" John wonders what kind of mad Omega he had run into, "Okay, looks like you're done. Just come over, I'll give you a hand, don't want you slipping down."

Sherlock wonders if he has ever had a longer conversation with anyone else. He decides to give up and leans far over, and then sits on the railing, "What would it take me for you to go away?" says he wearily to this extraordinarily stubborn Alpha.

"There!" John brandishes his index finger at him, "You **were** thinking of jumping. But you're not gonna jump anyway so-"

Sherlock whips around, "Excuse me?"

John shrugs his shoulders, faking nonchalance, "Well, you would have done it already." This statement earns him a scowl, "What?"

"You're not gonna jump. Otherwise you would've ignored me and got on with it."

Sherlock looks a little affronted at that, "You're distracting me. Go away!" He huffs, but his anger is disappearing and is being replaced by annoyance at the stranger. He leans forward again, not really readying himself for the jump. As this point, if he has to jump, it would be only to annoy that stupid stranger.

"I can't. I'm too involved now. You let go, and I'm gonna have to jump in there after you." He takes off his jacket and the journal out of his pocket, setting them down on the deck. He starts untying his left shoe, saying his words like they ought to be the most natural thing in the entire world.

Now it's Sherlock's turn to look very surprised and confused at that, "Don't be absurd! You'll be killed."

"I'm a good swimmer."

"The fall alone would kill you," he points out all that he has figured out mere seconds ago upon spotting the deserted fantail inspite of his anguish. He doesn't understand why a complete stranger would come jumping down after him, although his rational mind knows that he is fibbing.

John can see that the Omega's mind is slowly drifting away from suicide. "It would hurt. I'm not saying it wouldn't."

"Go away! You couldn't save your family and your dreams, how can you hope to save me?"

John freezes on the spot as he looks into Sherlock's grey, glassy orbs reflecting the lights. He does not know how the Omega knew about that one little raw spot in his heart. He decides to ignore it, dismissing it as sheer fluke, "I'm not at all worried about you jumping, because you're not going to. Unless you happen to slip and fall. To tell you the truth, I'm lot more concerned about the water being so cold down there."

Sherlock looks down. The reality factor of what he is doing dawns upon him, "And you know how... cold it is?" He knows that the water should be -2 degree centigrade at the most, but he asks. Just in case. He didn't mean it as a question, of course. Why would he? That Alpha was supposed to be an idiot.

"Freezing. Maybe a couple of degrees over." He takes off his right shoe as well, "You ever... you ever been to Snowdon?"

Sherlock is perplexed at the sudden change in topic, "Snowdon?"

"There are some of the coldest waters in Wales in there. Once my da took me for trout ice fishing in one of its lakes when I was seven. Ice fishing is where you-"

"I know what ice-fishing is!" he blurts out, clearly irritated by the obstacle. He wonders why the stranger Alpha is telling him stories of his childhood all of a sudden, instead of taking offence at his rude inferences about his personal life.

"Sorry! You just seem like, you know, kind of a indoor posh Omega who never has been out of ... So anyway," he continues with his tale, seeing that the Omega does not like being called 'indoor', "I went through some thin ice and I'm telling you, water that cold... like right down there, it hits you like a 1000 knives stabbing you all over your body. You can't breathe, you can't think... least not about anything but the pain. Your body freezes over, hypothermia sets in. Death doesn't come straightaway. It paralyses you first, starting with the cold and then the fear of not having control."

John knows that he had hit the right spot when Sherlock looks mildly horrified at the mention of 'absence of control'. He puts his hands back into his pockets, "Which is why I'm not looking forward to jumping in there after you." He takes off his jumper and hangs it on the anchor lying nearby, "Like I said, I don't have a choice. I guess I'm kind of hoping you'll come back over the rail and get me off the hook here." He looks at the Omega's frowning face hopefully.

"You're an idiot," Sherlock declares, leaning out for the third time.

John leans forward too, his voice low and a little amused. He knows that the Omega is not going to throw himself off anymore, "But, with all due respect, I'm not the one hanging off the back of a ship here."

He slides one step closer, like moving up on a spooked horse. He extends his hand to him, "Come on. You don't want to do this. Give me your hand."

Sherlock glances at John's hand slowly approaching him. He unfastens one hand from the rail and reaches it around toward him. He reaches out to take it, firmly. He turns around, looking at his saviour. John's face is contorted into an expression of intense mental concentration. He has almost forgotten Sherlock's hurtful words when he looks up at the Omega's frightened and helpless face. He smiles gratefully at him, "I'm John Watson."

Sherlock is still apprehensive as he wipes his face in his white shirt. His voice quavers as he stammers out his full name, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

John chuckles softly, "That's quite a moniker. I'll have to get you to write that one down."

Sherlock gives out a choked laughter at his casual remark. He takes one more look at the dreadful abyss under him. Now that he had decided to live, the height is terrifying. He is overcome by vertigo as he shifts his footing, using John's shoulders as leverage to climb back up the railing. As he does that, he slips off the deck, plunging downwards as John grabs him by his hands with surprising strength. Sherlock is overcome by panic as he lets out a cry of help.

"Hold on!" John screams over the deafening waters, "I've got you!" He grips his hand and is jerked towards the rail. Sherlock grabs it, kicking and thrashing as he throws his leg on the deck edge and tries to pull himself up. That makes him slip again and he gives out an ear-piercing shriek of terror that echoes through the night.

"Help!"

"I've got you!" John shouts back, "I won't let go!"

John holds his hand with all his strength, not caring that if the Omega slipped again, he would pull him with himself down into the Atlantic. He concentrates on pulling him up and somehow gets him over the railing.

"Come on, that's right. You can do it."

They fall together in each other's arms onto the deck in a tangled heap, spinning in such a way that John winds up slightly on top of him. Sherlock is still holding on to him, paralysed by the terrifying ordeal he had been through, when the Quartermaster arrives.

"What's all this?"

He takes in Sherlock's dishevelled appearance, his scent that marked him as an Omega, and John's jacket and shoes lying nearby and instantly misunderstands the situation.

"You stand back! And don't move an inch!" He yells at John, who stands up defiantly, hands in pockets and feeling slightly angry at the false accusation.

"Fetch the master-at-arms!" Says he to the seamen.

* * *

John is handcuffed by the burly master-at-arms, the closest thing to a cop on board, with the exception of Victor's valet of course, while Sherlock is covered in a blanket. Although the experience has left him quite shaken, it is obvious that he does not require the shock blanket. Everytime he takes it off his shoulders, Victor's valet puts it back onto his shoulders with a stern look on his dour face. He refuses the brandy offered to him by Colonel Gracie. Victor is right in front of John, and extremely furious. It is obvious that the men have come running straight from the parlour as VIctor's dinner jacket is buttoned up in all the wrong places and he is missing his pocket watch. Any ordinary man would attempt to placate his fiancee. But Victor, in an attempt to show off his Alpha dominance, towers over John's short figure. John looks him in the eye, never faltering even for a moment.

"This is completely unacceptable! What made you think you could put your hands on my fiancee?" He says 'fiancee' with such absurd sense of ownership that it makes John's eyes shift from Victor's to those of Sherlock's. He was quite right about him earlier.

"You look at me when I'm talking to you, you filth!" He grabs John by the collar, just as Sherlock lets out a choked whisper, "Victor!"

"What do you think you were doing?"

Sherlock rushes to seize Victor's hands and comes between the two of them, "Victor, Stop! It was an accident!"

He laughs incredulously, "An accident?"

"It was..." John is very confused at this point, and Victor is trying to comprehend the situation as Sherlock dons a perfectly fake goofy smile on his face, "I was leaning over and... I-slipped."

"You were leaning over?" Mycroft comes into the scene, trying his best to look surprised.

Sherlock looks at John, getting eye contact, "Ah, yes brother dear. I was, uh... not exactly leaning over... I was sitting on the railing."

An exaggerated sigh tells Sherlock that his brother isn't buying it, "And pray tell _why_ were you doing so?"

Victor rolls his eyes and grits his teeth, very annoyed to be roused from his smoking routine just because his fiancee desired to sit on the railing. "I was so bored, and I felt like, needed the fresh air-"

"There's fresh air everywhere on the ship, sweetpea."

John frowns at the nickname. It's extremely disgusting. Sherlock looks like he thinks the same too.

"Well, you could sit there for yourself to..."

"No, thank you," Mycroft forces a small tight-lipped smile, "We can see the consequences of your... _boredom_ for ourselves."

"I would have gone overboard but Mr. Watson here saved me. And almost went over himself." Sherlock adds hastily.

John is clearly amused at the elaborate explanation. He tries his best not to smile fondly at him.

"He was bored! On Titanic!" Victor announces to the crowd, "He wanted fresh air!" He's making fun of the idea very openly in front of all the Alphas there. Sherlock does not look away from John at all. He remains hooked to his saviour.

"Like I always say!" Colonel Archie remarks good-naturedly, hands behind his back, "Omegas should not be let out! They should be kept indoors, always!"

"Would have helped if you had got rid of your smoking habits, brother dear," Mycroft admonishes.

Sherlock emits a very low huff. John smiles inwardly at that. He has never heard of an Omega smoking. He always believed that they were quiet, docile things. The master-at-arms seizes him for one last time for the night, "Is that the way of it?" He clearly isn't convinced.

Sherlock is begging him with his eyes not to say what really happened. He gulps and glances at Victor, "Yeah, that's pretty much it."

He looks at Sherlock a moment longer. Now they have a secret together.

The colonel looks very pleased, "Well! The boy's a hero then. Good for you son, well done!"

Victor and Mycroft look at him suspiciously but they don't say anything.

"So it's all's well and back to our brandy, eh?" He turns away leaving Victor to take Sherlock in his arms. He rubs his palms against his shoulders, trying to generate sufficient friction to warm him up, "Let's get you in. You're freezing." He starts to leave without a second thought for John as he's uncuffed. The colonel, however, clears his throat and continues in a low voice, "Perhaps... a little something for the boy?"

Victor nods and beckons to his valet, "Of course. I think a twenty should do it."

Sherlock is obviously discontented, "Oh, is that the going rate for saving your fiancée? Twenty measly pounds?"

"No, it's okay," John says weakly. Twenty pounds is a monstrous amount, but he wasn't going to take the money thrown at him like he had earned it in a tip or something. It was his duty, nothing more. More so for an Omega like him. Then he remembers that no one is really listening to him. He's simply steerage swine.

Victor smirks at how casually he drops the title 'fiancee', "Ooh, Sherlock is displeased. Mmm... what to do?" He turns back to John. He appraises him condescendingly... a steerage ruffian, unwashed and ill-mannered, "I know just the thing," he smiles reassuringly, approaching John with the colonel and the valet at his heels, "Perhaps you could join us for dinner tomorrow evening seven o' clock, to regale our group with your heroic tale?"

The colonel gives a very slight smile, hidden under his bushy moustache. He certainly finds the situation very humourous.

John is still frowning at him as he looks him in the eye. He does not find Victor likeable at all, "Sure. Count me in."

He flashes a victorious smirk at him, "Good, it's settled then." The smile disappears as soon as he turns away from John, "This should be amusing," he murmurs to Mycroft.

Sherlock watches the power dynamics between the two Alphas. Mycroft notes his half-worried, half-hopeful face before the look can disappear. With a final glance at John, he is escorted away by Victor. John watches the trio till they disappear around the corner, not knowing whether to congratulate himself or brood over the impending dinner the next evening.

* * *

As Sherlock undresses and pulls a midnight blue dressing gown over his shoulders, he looks at his reflection in the dressing mirror. The room does not look like it had been sabotaged the earlier evening at all. It is spotless and neat as ever. He casts an eye over his image. He does not want to spoil his looks anymore. Not at least before the dinner party the next evening. He smiles a little, feeling grateful that God has given him whatever little beauty everyone thinks he is in possession of. But his smile slowly fades away as he spots Victor watching his rituals fondly. He draws his chin up, waiting for him to start.

"I know you've been melancholy." His voice is unexpectedly tender. Sherlock has never heard him speak such words, "I don't pretend to know why."

He comes and makes him sit beside him on the stool in front of the dresser, his eyes taking in the youthful glow of Sherlock's skin. He traces a finger down his jaw, running it over his cheekbones with the air of a man admiring his possession, "I wished for tonight to come to an alternate end, but I don't want to rush you. I want you to take your time, Sherlock."

Sherlock remains impassive as ever. There's not even a shadow of truth in his words. He looks up to face his to-be husband, wanting to tell him that the concept of Bonding before marriage was too disgraceful a prospect for the society to accept, but he reminds himself that he was the one who had brought this upon himself. He looks up, not willing to look down like a submissive Omega.

"You know, this is one of the things I love about you," those words were almost thickly laced with mockery, "You never give up." There's now an unfathomable pity in his voice. He hates the sound of it. Victor takes his hand and replaces the engagement ring back onto his ring finger and kisses his hand. He seems himself to be disarmed by Sherlock's elegance and pristine beauty for a few moments. His emotion is, for the first time, unguarded. His voice is a little choked when he starts, but he regains it in a second anyway, "I noticed that this was strewn across the floor when I was informed about the wreck in here," his words have become hard and they demand an explanation, "I don't understand. There's nothing I couldn't give you. There's nothing I'd deny you," he steps down, looking at their reflection in the mirror together, "If you would not deny me."

Sherlock turns to look at the man he was going to be forced to live with for the rest of his life. There's dread in his eyes, as opposed to the smug expression on Victor's face, "Open your heart to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock's hand instinctively reaches out towards his own heart hammering slowly in the cavity of his chest, devoid of vitality and joy, as if trying to shield it from Victor. Unable to maintain eye-contact anymore , Sherlock looks away towards the mirror and at the ring sitting on his finger. He rises from his place. "Good night, Victor," he drawls, before retreating back to his room, thinking about how it felt to be in John Watson's strong, protective arms. He remembers those blue eyes and they somehow suddenly seem to fill his universe.


	3. A Walk and A Little Talk

**Summary:** Like the title suggests, a walk and a little talk.

It might be a little boring. Just talking and talking. My apologies.

* * *

**A/N**: For those who aren't familiar with Omegaverse (majorly, my version of Omegaverse and hence, my versions of the four genders and their interactions):

Alphas-have a dominant streak in them, physically strong, think that they are the kings, arrogant and imposing as hell and can reproduce with Omegas or females

Omegas- generally very attractive and docile little creatures, in other words, considered to be the exact opposite of what Alphas are; can reproduce only with Alphas

Betas-intelligent in a worldly sense; can reproduce only with females

Females don't have any such sub-gender.

I'm not sure whether it's the similar in other fics, I found this one to be the best for my work.

I hope this clears it a bit and if you have any other questions, drop me a comment, and I'll reply to it, either as a comment or in a chapter note if it is a general thing.

* * *

Friday, April 12th, 1912

The third class general room is the social epicenter of steerage life. It is stark by comparison to the opulence of first class, but is a loud, boisterous place. There are mothers with babies, kids running between the benches yelling in several languages and being scolded in several more. There are old women yelling, men playing chess, girls doing needlepoint and reading dime novels. There is even an upright piano and Mike is noodling around it.

Three boys, shrieking and shouting, are scrambling around chasing a rat under the benches, trying to whomp it with a shoe and causing general havoc. John is playing doctor-doctor with that same little girl, Cora, teaching her how to check for her pulse and how to give first-aid help to someone, using her father as a test subject. He watches her wrap imaginary bandages around her father's arm while winking at Greg, who is struggling to get a conversation going with an attractive but painfully shy girl.

"What's your name then?"

"M-Molly," she tries to stammer out, "Hooper. I-"

Her eye is caught by something. Greg looks, does a take... and John, curious, follows their gaze to see...

Sherlock, coming toward them. The activity in the room stops... a hush falls as the distinctive odour of an Omega's brow reaches the Alpha men scattered across the room amidst all the stink of sweat and the general untidiness. Even if he wears a long tweed coat to hide his identity, the scent is recognizable. An Omega is very rare, something you don't get to set your eyes upon every day. Many die before they've seen one. Most of the working labour class are comprised of Alphas, due to the demand of manual labour, and women. Never an Omega or Beta. Betas, being practical and intelligent, are mostly middle class: engineers, doctors, etc. Omegas are treasured possessions of the royalty, meant to be guarded with jealousy from the rest of world, not to be left astray in the third class general room.

But, Omega or not, this young man is very mismatched with his surroundings.

Sherlock suddenly feels self-conscious as the steerage passengers stare openly at this regal prince, some with resentment, others with awe. He spots John and gives him a little smile, walking straight to him. He rises to meet him, smiling back.

"Good morning, Mr. Watson."

Mike and Greg are floored. It's like the slipper fitting Cinderella.

"Hello again, William Sherlock something..."

A smile touches his lips. "Just Sherlock. Could I speak to you in private?"

John looks confused, "Uh, yes. Of course. After you."

He motions him ahead and follows. John glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised, as he walks out with him, leaving behind a stunned silence.

As they lead themselves out in the deck, Sherlock's heart is pumping furiously. He hasn't told about this little rendezvous to anyone, not even Mycroft. He knows that he shouldn't be doing this, roaming around the ship unchaperoned by a family Alpha. But, as he tells himself fervently, he needs to thank Mr. Watson for his intervention the previous night.

It's like he has felt the sun for the first time in many years as he walks beside John, their hands at quite a distance away from each other. John is dressed in the same clothes as previous night, while Sherlock has obviously changed into a grey three-piece suit, having shed the black tweed overcoat which rests peacefully in his arm. John has his medical journal in his hand as the two of them walk awkwardly, their discomfort arising due to different reasons. John cannot think of a single thing to say. He does not quite believe that he's walking with an Omega and that too in the first class area of the ship.

They pass people reading and talking in steamer chairs, some of whom glance curiously at the incompatible couple. He feels out of place in his rough clothes. Seeing as being an Alpha required him to start the conversation, he opens his mouth, "So... you've got a name... William, and yet you call yourself Sherlock."

He shrugs, "Don't blame me. My parents have always had a dreadful tradition of naming us horribly. I honestly don't know why William comes before my first name."

John nods. The first topic of conversation is closed.

"John H. Watson."

He turns to see Sherlock staring intently at the label on the journal. He doesn't know why Sherlock strode into the general room to drag him away so that they could only discuss each other's names "Yes."

"Henry?"

John frowns and doesn't say anything. Sherlock sees the pucker of his lips, and is now determined to guess the name, "Higgins? Humphrey? Something that sounds funny, isn't it?"

John smiles at his efforts. He drops his voice so that no one can hear, "Hamish."

Sherlock's hands fold behind his back. He emits a small humming sound. Another topic closed. Now the atmosphere is getting really awkward.

"Weather is good, isn't it?" It's the best shot John has at conversation.

"Yes, it's like I've never been out in sun."

"Well, you clearly haven't. Not even a speck of tan... don't they make you wear all those absurd hats to cover yourself? You know, being an Omega and such, wanting to make you look like a china doll?"

Sherlock smiles. There's at least someone who's against the ceremony of wearing hats. "That's true, but I find the practice of wearing hats very silly."

John suddenly remembers something from the previous night, "You... knew about my family."

He nods. Something about Sherlock's manner makes it clear that it wasn't a simple fluke.

"How? Did they work under you, presuming that you," John indicates at a general direction of him, "or your family own some industry or whatever-"

"Nothing of that sort. I simply saw."

John looks down at himself and his Bohemian attire, "This is all you saw. How could you possibly have...?"

"Why not? When I see a young Alpha with his hair a little too long for the standards of the times, and his clothes rumpled from sleeping in them and when he's too self-possessed and sure-footed for 20, it is no great feat to infer that he must have been on his own for quite some time."

John looks down at himself again, his Alpha instincts taking over him and he tries to contradict him, "I could have run away from home."

Sherlock smirks, "Unlikely. You would not have carried that ridiculous middle name about with you," he points at the journal, "seeing as you were so ashamed to admit it. Anyway, no one keeps their middle name after they have run away. They want to sever their ties with the family."

John looks faux offended, "It's not ridiculous, it's my father's name. And yours is worse. And this could have been an old book, from before I supposedly ran away."

"Mine is worse indeed. I don't disagree. But you dropped your voice almost an octave down when you told me that it was 'Hamish'," there's a small self-satisfied smirk on his face, "As for the book, it may look old but the year is clearly printed, 1909. I said that you were on your own for quite some time, longer than 3 years obviously, on the verge of 5 maybe, so you bought it after your parents died-" Sherlock stops, seeing as this isn't a conversation that John is comfortable with. John looks away at a distance just as Sherlock comes out with another much more promising topic of chat, "Tell me more about yourself, Mr. Watson. Other than ice fishing, of course."

John laughs a little, "Yeah, that was really stupid of me! I should have gotten straight to the point."

Sherlock smiles too, "Yes, indeed."

"Well, like you said, I've been on my own since I was 15. My folks died in a fire. Also I had no brothers or sisters or close kin in that part of country. So I lit on out of there, got to London and I haven't been back since. You can just call me a tumbleweed blowing in the wind."

Sherlock looks something that resembles 'impressed', "You've travelled a lot, I can see."

"Yes, that. Are you... like a mind reader or something? Yeah, you gave me some theory, most of which went right over my head before, but it's clear as crystal now," he chuckles softly.

Sherlock leans against the railing, relaxing in a very un-Omega fashion. It's clear that he's opening up to this stranger who saved his life the previous night, "I'm not a mind reader. Want me to prove it, yes?"

John looks around, "Not here. You might know someone. Let's go to the third class-"

"Subjects here would be more difficult. All their history concealed under layers of clothing and voluminous amounts of cosmetics."

Sherlock had a point. But John looks up at him testily and smiles challengingly, "Yeah, but I'm not lettin' you cheat. We'll do one here and one there. And we'll see how good you are."

He accepts the contest, "You choose. I'll tell you everything about them."

"Okay, round one," he casts his gaze around and spots a woman dressed in pink and a matching pink hat, with her back to them, on Colonel Moran's arm. He subtly points at her, "I dare you. Give it your best shot."

Sherlock smiles. He doesn't know this woman so he's willing to give it a try. John is clever enough to give him a more difficult class of problem. Deducing from a man is much easier than a woman. More so, a woman with her back towards them.

"Just so you know, I know the man and I know that he's already married. By the looks of it, she must be his mistress-"

"You know her. Great-"

"I didn't say that," Sherlock interrupts quickly, "Okay, here we go. Woman's cheating on her husband too. There's a ring or her finger. Do you see that?"

John nods. So far clear.

"Victim of domestic abuse. This one's obvious. Means that husband's on board too."

Not to John. He does not see any bruises or cuts. "I don't see any marks."

"It's not the presence of marks. It's the absence of it. There's an excessive amount of talc on some very suggestive areas of her hands and neck. She's clearly trying to mask them with makeup. It's also unlikely that the husband knows about her affair otherwise she would not be roaming around with the colonel during daytime."

"Okay. What else?"

"Means that the husband is going into recession, very recently."

John frowns, "What do you mean?"

"You remember the man who was draping the blanket across my shoulders yesterday? He's valet to my fianc- the man who was trying to strangle you," Sherlock corrects himself hastily, "All the upper class ones have their manservant or valet spying on their wives or Omegas. She does not have anyone trailing behind her. But her clothes are quite fine, you see. That, coupled by the domestic abuse due to moral regression clearly signals to the fact that they are emigrating to America for a better future."

John is mesmerised by Sherlock's ability to read people. The reasoning is so accurate that he cannot doubt his conclusions, "Amazing! How do you do it?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, trying his best not to look too pleased, "I told you. I simply observe."

"Just observe? You were talking to me the whole time."

Sherlock's eyes narrow as he comes to a rest near the gymnasium door. He casts a glance around for five seconds, and starts off, "The boy who just passed us has a twin brother on this ship. The man leaning against the railing is an ex-army man, possibly sergeant, widower, no children. One of your mates, the cherub one, wanders all around Europe, gets to see his family only twice a year. He had an unhappy love-affair the last time he had been on a ship. Although having travelled a lot, I could see that he came from Glasgow. The other, flirtatious one is a Londoner, although he's originally from somewhere in the mining districts in the States."

John blinks several times. His mouth is open in honest appreciation, "Wow! You know more about them than I do."

The Omega smiles at the thought, "Course I do. I am Sherlock Holmes. I notice everything."

"Well, I'll just have to do a better job of distracting you from now on!"

"No chance. Now the second half. Round two."

They turn around and start for the other end of the ship, "Well, Sherlock, we've walked about a mile around the boat deck, chewed over our names and how great the weather is and how I grew up, and some scandalous secrets of a woman... but I reckon that's not why you came to talk to me, is it? Or did you just want a friendly chat?"

Sherlock stops and looks down, trying to form the words in his mouth. His face grows serious, "Mr. Watson, I-"

"John."

"John... I want to thank you for what you did. Not just for pulling me back, but also for your discretion and, it was very heroic... considering the ordeal you had to go through after that."

"You're welcome." John smiles kindly, content with listening to what Sherlock has to say. He has seen sadness in his face, and he wants him to open up about it, "Look, I don't wanna be nosy about it, but I think that's not all."

His face is so open and honest and sincere. It is unlike anyone he has ever known. He is completely apart from his world, a drifter, an ordinary man with a forgettable face. Ordinary yet incomprehensible. Sherlock knows only bits about this wanderer who aspires to be a doctor, small bits that his clever deductions can tell him. He knows, but he does not understand. And the thought makes him mad. Why would Mr. Watson-John care if he lived or died? He barely knew him. He expected no reward when he had rescued him. He had even refused the twenty that Victor had reluctantly offered him.

"Well, I-"

Sherlock decides to give in to all the desperation inside him.

"I don't... it wasn't just one thing. It was them, it was their whole world. And I was trapped in it, like an insect in amber," a wave of anger washes over him, something similar to what he had felt yesterday, and John subconsciously places himself so that he is between Sherlock and the railing, " I just had to get away... just run and run and run... and then I was at the back rail and there was no more ship... even the Titanic wasn't big enough. Not enough to get away from them. Jumping seemed like the only getaway, apart from dying. I was so furious. I'll show them. They'll be sorry!"

"Uh huh," John nods, "They'll be sorry. 'Cause you'll be dead. Nice way to make a point."

"Can't really judge that now," Sherlock has his hold over himself again, "You stopped me from doing that."

"Anyway," John continues, "That penguin last night... he said he was your fiancée. Is he one of them?"

"He is them. 500 invitations have gone out. All of Philadelphia society will be there. And all the while... I wanted to go to university, not marry and sit at home."

He shows John the engagement ring sitting heavily on his finger, weighing him down.

"Holy moly! I've never seen an uglier thing before!"

They laugh together. A passing steward scowls at John, who is clearly not a first class passenger, but Sherlock just glares at him away.

John drops all the cheerfulness upon hearing how serious the situation was for him.

"So you feel like you're stuck on a train you can't get off 'cause you're marrying this fella."

Sherlock nods.

"Then don't marry him."

Sherlock is caught off-guard. "Pardon me?"

"Do you at least love him?"

He is at a loss of words. He knows that he isn't fond of Victor, but he's his fiancée. Why else would he be his fiancée if he didn't love him? "You're being very rude. You shouldn't be asking me this!"

John frowns. There's nothing wrong with the query, "It's a simple question. Do you love the guy or not?"

Sherlock looks at him incredulously and lets out a strained laugh, as if he cannot believe this man, "This is not a suitable conversation."

Meanwhile, John is amused as well, "Why can't you just answer the question?"

"This is absurd! You don't know me, and I don't know you and we're not having this conversation at all! You are rude and uncouth and presumptuous, and I am leaving now!" At this point, John is almost ready to burst out laughing as Sherlock extends his hand, "John... Mr. Watson," he takes it and they shake hands for quite a time, "It's been a pleasure. I sought you out to thank you and now I _have_ thanked you." John's hands are rough and strong as he grips Sherlock's larger palm.

"And you've insulted me." He says it like it is the biggest honor anyone has ever bestowed upon him.

"Well, you deserved it." Sherlock's adamant nature comes out naturally.

They're still shaking hands. John looks down at the comical way in which such a serious situation was coming to an end, "I thought you were going to go for Round 2 of your deductions."

"As it turns out, you have diverted my thoughts away from that direction. You fault!"

"Right," John is shaking with silent laughter now, "I thought you were also leaving."

"Oh, I am!"

"And also staying for Round two of your deductions!" John reminds him, a goofy smile plastered on his lips.

Sherlock looks utterly beaten, "You're insufferable!"

"Right," John laughs at Sherlock's retreating figure.

Suddenly, remembering something, he storms back to John, "Wait, I don't have to leave! This is my part of the ship. You leave!"

He laughs out loud, "Whoa! Well, well, well. Now who's being rude?" And Sherlock is taken aback again.

"Shut up and get to the second round!"

* * *

Sherlock does not feel out of place anymore as the third class approaches for the umpteenth time. John is good company, and he goes to all lengths to make Sherlock laugh. It's afternoon, he has spent only half-a-day with John, and he already feels like he has never been happier in his whole life. They skip lunch as they sit in the shade on a deck chair, deducing all people that pass through there and laughing at all the shocking secrets that Sherlock collects from them. Surprisingly, Victor's valet hasn't come to search for him yet. It's almost two o'clock, and Sherlock has lost count of how many times they have passed the various landmarks: the lifeboats, the edge of the A-deck promenade, large brass signs that indicate the various rooms. The decks are bursting with life, children are playing in whatever limited area they can make the best use of, and people have almost stopped glaring at them.

John is of above-average intelligence and he also tries his hand at deduction, although when he sees the way Sherlock's face lights up when he corrects him and calls him an idiot, John deliberately announces staggeringly wrong results that are simply not possible just to see the Omega smile and smack him lightly on the head.

"You're an idiot, John!" He declares, "That's ridiculous! Yes, that man is an established medical man, but he also is a country man!"

"How?"

"Look at that stick! It's only two years old; the date is on the stick, but the base is very much worn out. Means he does a lot of walking! And..."

He did not think that that would be the explanation.

John loves the bright look on Sherlock face when he explains his deductions. It's like this is the first time he has got some chance to do the talking. He's so fast that John finds it very hard to keep up with him, and he has to ask him to repeat himself several times. Sherlock looks a little annoyed when he's asked to repeat himself, but it's worth the tiny bit of smile that appears on his face.

"That other git yesterday, the one with the ginger hair, who's he?" He suddenly asks.

"My brother, Mycroft."

"Your brother? Didn't look like one."

Sherlock frowns, "He has the same eyes as me."

"Yeah, but you're so-" John stops abruptly when it hits him what he's going to say to him. Two tiny specks of colour appear on Sherlock's cheeks. Looking for another topic, any other topic, he indicates the journal, tucked in his pocket, John's only possession except for his clothes and his kit bag.

"Why do you carry this book around with you all day?"

"Tis my journal. I read it whenever I get free time."

"May I?"

The question is rhetorical because he has already grabbed the journal. He sits on a deck chair and opens the book. It is an anatomy journal full of meticulous notes made by John in neat minuscule handwriting.

"You wanted to be a doctor?"

"Still want to be. I got no money. That's why I moved to London in the first place. Heard that there would be lot of work in there. Studying in London would need plenty of cash, so I'm moving to America."

Sherlock wishes he could just go for everything in life like John could. "Well... I knew you were some sort of medical figure."

Sherlock did not. He was internally cursing himself to have overlooked such a basic and suggestive fact.

John quirks his eyebrow at that, "How?"

"All that hypothermia talk. But... your hands suggest that you've done a lot of pencil work and all this is in pen."

John's cheeks flush a little as he looks at the graphite accumulated in his nails, "Yeah, you really don't want to know that."

"Go on, tell me."

"Told you, you really don't want to know that," John tugs at the journal, but Sherlock doesn't give away without a struggle. Some loose sheets fall out and are taken by the wind. John scrambles after them... catching some, but the rest are gone, over the rail. Sherlock feels a little guilty when he sees that those are crude sketches.

Not crude. They're lively, humane, each one an expressive little bit of humanity: an old woman's hands, a sleeping man, two puppy dogs playing and running after each other. The faces are luminous and alive. It is nothing like Sherlock has ever seen.

"So... you're an artist as well?" He hadn't seen that coming. John did not seem like the artistic kind, or simply not the artistic kind that Sherlock has ever come across.

John shrugs his shoulders, "Not really. I started by practising these anatomy diagrams, in case I ever got into some university. My mate Mike told me that I could earn much more by doing sketches instead. I just seem to spew 'em out. Besides, they're not worth a damn anyway."

For emphasis he throws away the ones he caught. They sail off.

Sherlock laughs, "You're deranged!"

"Merci, Monsieur Holmes!" He gives him a little bow.

"Well, well..."

He has come upon a series of nudes stuffed at the back of the book. Sherlock is transfixed by the languid beauty he has created. His nudes are soulful, real, with expressive hands and eyes. They feel more like portraits than studies of the human form... almost uncomfortably intimate. He tries hard not to blush, raising the book as some strollers pass by.

John purses his lips and looks away, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye apprehensively as he goes through every single of them.

Sherlock swallows, trying to be very adult, "And... these were... drawn from life?"

John simply nods, not knowing what else to do other than smile. "Something wrong?" He asks when he sees the frown on the Omega's face.

"Nothing... this woman... you liked her."

John looks down, not saying anything.

"She's different from others," Sherlock carries on, "and this is only once you've drawn her."

He studies this one drawing in particular, the girl posed half in sunlight, half in shadow. She is looking somewhere else, not at him like most of the figures. Her face is half-hidden in darkness, with bolder tones than usually what John had done with the rest. It's like he has gone to extraordinary lengths to let whoever sees the drawing discern that he knew this woman, and that she was distinguished, just as bold as the pencil strokes, just as alluring and mysterious as the light falling on her depicts her to be. She comes out loud and alive through his immortalization of her on paper. Her nudity is an unimportant thing when compared to how fantastically she's portrayed. Sherlock has never been a very big aficionado of art and fantasy. However, this one picture makes him change his mind.

He steals a glance at his face. He knows he's thinking the right thing. But he doesn't want to prod further. Not if it is in the past.

"Yeah, she's... I met her when I was travelling to London. Mary. This is the only picture I have of her."

"Oh." A very exaggerated oh. He's never the one to ask people about their lives, and John isn't a person who says until he has been asked.

"Hmph... I said that you travelled a lot."

"And you were very right like always."

"You've been to Wales, Ireland, even France and Italy. You do get around for a po-well, p-"

John grins, rather unabashed, "Go on, a poor guy, you can say it."

Sherlock and John stroll aft, past people lounging on deck chairs in the slanting sunset light. Stewards scurry to serve tea or hot cocoa.

"You know," says Sherlock, "I've always dreamt of running away and becoming a pirate."

John guffaws, "Pirate? Won't that be too demeaning for His Highness Mycroft Holmes?"

"Ugh. Who cares about what he thinks? Once I had this dream that I was plundering Victor's goldmines and just spreading the wealth around!"

"I'm tellin' you! You wouldn't last two days. There's no hot water, and hardly ever any caviar."

His expression turns angry in a flash, " Listen, buster... I hate caviar! And I'm tired of people dismissing my dreams with a chuckle and a pat on the head."

John looks down, feeling very guilty, "I'm sorry. You're right."

"You know, everybody expects me to be this delicate docile thing which I'm not. I'm as strong and as sturdy as a horse! This mind of mine, it's made for work, not for sitting at home and thinking household!"

Right on cue, a steward approaches them, "Care for something, sir? Perhaps some tea or some bourbon?"

Sherlock's eyes flash dangerously as he gives him a tight-lipped smile, "I'd like some nightshade and boiling oil to drown you in!"

John starts laughing hard again, as the steward scuttles away, looking very scared at the angry outburst, "Well, if you'd like to, you and I can plunder the Titanic the next time it sets sail. Just you know, all the caviar in the ocean, back to where it came from!"

Some passer-bys look at them, very horrified at the idea as Sherlock's eyes gleam with excitement, "Sounds like you have a plan, Mr. Wandering John."

"No, not plan! We'll do it! We'll don eye patches, hooks and pirate clothes... well, you're an expert at that!"

"Real pirates don't do that, John!" Sherlock states in a scholarly tone, "They drink and loot and eat and drink again!"

"Seriously? You? Drink?"

Sherlock shoots him a challenging look, "What? You think an Omega can't drink?"

"Well, I've heard that you smoke. I suppose drinking shouldn't come across as surprising."

"Apart from that... I've done some preparatory work."

John's eyes widen in genuine surprise, "And that is?"

Sherlock gives him a small wink and casts a stealthy glance around, "Come with me."

Painted with orange light, John and Sherlock lean on the A-deck rail aft, shoulder to shoulder. The ship's lights come on. It is a magical moment... simply perfect.

Or it would have been if there had been no mischief on Sherlock's mind.

"Watch closely."

John does not know what Sherlock is up to. As soon as he sees the Omega pick pocketing his neighbour, he grabs his hand away, causing the man to look at what had happened behind. He drags the fighting Omega away from there, although, being taller, Sherlock has a significant advantage.

"You could have got me caught!" His cry is almost shrill.

"Sherlock, what _if_ you get caught-?"

"I won't," says he confidently. Then, upon remembering John's moral side, he adds, "And I wasn't taking his money! Why would I need it?"

John frowns, "Then?"

"I was taking it from his pocket and putting it back! Now, watch."

In the twinkle of an eye, the man's wallet was in Sherlock's hands. "Ta da!"

John could have described himself as thoroughly impressed had it not been such a bad thing, "Jesus, you're such a troublemaker! Where did you learn that?"

He slipped it back into the man's pocket deftly, "I pick-pocket my brother when he annoys me. Okay, your turn."

"Oh no, no!" John raises his hands, quite alarmed, "I'm not doing anything like that."

"Come on, John! I'll save your neck if you get caught."

John shakes his head, "Sherlock, do you want me to attend the dinner party tonight or spend the evening in the company of the master-at-arms?"

Sherlock's smile disappears from his face. He wants him to. John would be wonderful company amongst all the mindless banter. But he does not want to expose him to the heartless people, that is, if they even deserved to be called people. He knows that Victor has called John only to embarrass him, nothing more. And Mycroft, he could always be counted upon.

But all that doesn't mean that Sherlock isn't going to give up. By Jove, he's going to teach John Watson how to pick-pocket, just for the fun of it!

"One more, and then you'll have to do it!"

"Oh," John shoots him a smirk, "why should I listen to you?" Sherlock counters back with a smile that clearly says, 'do I need to explain that to you?'.

He reaches for the poor venerable gentleman for the third time and draws out the wallet again, never failing to bring about that impressed look on John's face. He bows like he has performed some great stunt.

"And that's the way I do it!" He replaces it back into the gentleman's trousers as John visibly blanches. He sees his expression and turns.

Mycroft, Andrea, the Duke and the Duchess of Cheshire were watching them closely. Sherlock becomes instantly composed.

"Brother! Surely you remember Joh-Mr. Watson from yesterday?"

Mycroft fixes John under his uncomfortable glare. His eyes are cold as ice, and yet somehow they seem to emit the fury at his brother's pastime, like John were in any way responsible for it. His head turns to look at Sherlock, demanding an explanation for his actions and as to what Joh-Mr. Watson was doing roaming around with him without an Apha to escort him.

Before the others can throw more appalled looks in their direction, Sherlock starts with his own, a very John-friendly version of the previous day's tale. Everybody, including Andrea, were very gracious and curious about the man who had saved Victor's fiancée's life. But Mycroft, he looks at him like he was an insect. A dangerous insect which must be squashed immediately. John smiles at everyone, while the Duchess openly praises him, but his expression falters when he sees Mycroft's artificially blank face. He gives him a curt nod and forces his eyes towards the Duchess instead. They all jump as a bugler sounds the meal call right behind them like a cavalry charge.

"That's the dinner. Let's go, brother dear," Sherlock is speaking extremely fast as he takes Mycroft's arm.

They walk themselves out of there before Sherlock turns back to mouth his parting words to John over his shoulder, "See you at dinner."

"Sherlock, look at you... out in the sun with no hat. Honestly!"

John smiles at the words he has just caught from both the brothers as he gives him a small toodles.

"Son?"

He instantly turns around, afraid that someone else has seen them pick-pocketing. "Yes?"

There's Molly Brown in front of him, "You know whose fiancée you're messing with?"

John shrugs and gives her a lopsided smile. He doesn't even know Victor's last name. "Just that he owns some friggin' gold mines, but no... not really."

"Well, you're about to go into the snake pit. I hope you're ready for the dinner he was talking about," she casts a look up and down his rumpled old clothes, "What are you planning to wear?"

John looks down at his clothes. Back up at her. He hadn't thought about that. And neither had Sherlock.

"Just... this? I got nothing else."

Molly rolls her eyes and almost drags him by the sleeve of his shirt, "I figured. Come along! You can thank me later."

* * *

Men's suits and jackets and formal wear are strewn all over the place in Molly Brown's stateroom. She's is having a fine time going through three sizes of outfits. John is dressed, except for his jacket, and Molly is tying his bow tie.

"Don't feel bad about it," Molly is a nice one to share a laugh with, "My husband still can't tie one of these damn things after 20 years! There you go."

She picks up a jacket off the bed and hands it to him. John goes into the bathroom to put it on. Molly starts picking up the stuff off the bed.

"I gotta buy everything in three sizes 'cause I never know how much he's been eating while I'm away!"

John beams at her as he comes out, looking at the dressing mirror in front of him. Molly whistles in appreciation.

"My, my, my... you shine up like a new penny."

Joh smiles too. There's no way in hell Mycroft Holmes and Victor are going to treat him like steerage swine for the rest of the evening.

* * *

**E/N: **For the record, the Duke and the Duchess of Cheshire weren't there on Titanic. I just made it up and now I feel so guilty!

Why do my chapters get sooo long? I have to practice some brevity!

This is unbetaed and there might be some typo errors in this... feel free to point them out. I'll fix it as soon as I get my hands on my laptop.

I'm going on a vacation for five days. Bye bye! Love you all so much! xxx


	4. The Dinner Party

**Summary: **A dinner party and a mystery awaits John and Sherlock.

* * *

**A/N: **Finally! 5 days became 10! I hate my exams and my ISP.

* * *

John feels very small as he takes in a deep breath while leaning against a wall, watching the First Class Entrance. He looks out of the window towards the beautiful purple painted sky, shot with orange. Molly Brown, his real-life fairy godmother, isn't there to escort him instead of the other way round. Drifting, supposedly soothing strains of classical music only serve to set him on edge. He has half-a-mind to retreat back to his own modest, meagre world and call off the dinner invitation but when he recalls Sherlock's expectant face, he hardens his heart and takes a bold step forward. As soon as the dinner would be over, he would excuse himself and bolt out of there.

There are many couples marching ahead past him, Omegas clinging on to their Alphas' arms like dear life, women holding their husbands' arm and whispering daintily. Most people assume him to be a fine young gentleman, heir to a railroad fortune perhaps. And why wouldn't they? By Edwardian standards he looks positively badass. From his borrowed white-tie evening outfit right down to his pearl cufflinks, he looks dashing. Fabulous. His slightly untidy blond hair is combed neatly for the first time in many years.

He approaches the door. A steward bows and smartly opens it to the First Class Entrance.

"Good evening, sir."

John plays the role smoothly. Nods with just the right degree of disdain. The steward doesn't find anything amiss as John steps in and finds his breath taken away by the splendour spread out before him. Overhead is the enormous glass dome, with a crystal chandelier at its centre. Sweeping down six stories is the First Class Grand Staircase, the epitome of the opulent naval architecture. He feels like his head is already spinning. He gulps, and tries to look indifferent to the grandeur in front of his eyes. He does not belong here. He feels like a spy among the men and the women. All the people...

And all the people! The women in their floor length dresses, elaborate hairstyles with abundant jewellery, and feathers and tiaras sticking out of their hair... the gents in evening dress, standing with one hand at the small of the back, talking quietly.

John confidently descends to A deck and glances at the ornate clock. He has been to school only till his mum and dad had lived, if one did not count the number of times he used to slip into classrooms till the teacher took notice. He hasn't seen the Roman Numerals in ages and can tell one number apart from other only by their relative position on its face.

He straightens his jacket and continues his descent. Several men nod a perfunctory greeting. He nods back, keeping it simple. Having nothing to do with his arms, he leans against one of the pillars and folds them, observing the other men.

He straightens up his posture as he sees ex-Congressman Isidor and his wife Ida Strauss conversing with another couple nearby. John momentarily notices the possessive hand of the Alpha clasping that of this Bonded and rolls his eyes, before turning his attention back to the elderly couple. He points his chin slightly upwards and draws his shoulders up and back. The way he adjusts himself is almost too comical. He smiles a little too politely as Isidor Strauss greets him with a slight bob of his head.

John's attention is turned back to the two people coming down the staircase: Victor and Mycroft, hands in his trouser-pockets, both looking very dapper in their formal wear. He licks his lips as he readies himself to be acknowledged by them.

"I'm extremely sorry for the delay, Mycroft," comes his voice waving down, "You know how your little brother is. Always engaged with his experiments. It's extremely fortunate that you did not send him to university."

"Why should I have? The purpose of university is to find a suitable husband. Sherlock has already done that." Mycroft's eyes are glinting victoriously and Victor smirks at him, before giving John a terse nod, not recognising him. The latter almost extends his hand in greeting only to find the two of them walking past him towards Captain E.J. Smith, and the Countess of Rothes, a thirty five-ish English blue-blood with patrician features. Mycroft takes her hand and kisses it.

"Hello, my dear."

"Good evening, Mycroft. So good to see you." Victor follows suit, "Good evening, Countess. You look absolutely lovely."

She laughs as Mycroft and Captain Smith shake hands, "Always the flatterer, Victor! I don't see Sherlock anywhere."

"Oh, he'll be along with Miss Andrea."

John sighs inaudibly, wondering why he even came to the party. It was obvious that Victor wasn't really expecting him.

Though somebody else was.

Sherlock comes to a stop at the first step of the staircase as he watches John practising handshakes. He smiles as he sees him so hard at work. Meanwhile, John barely has time to be disheartened as he spots Sherlock, a stunning vision in black and white and dark curls as he approaches him. Words turn to dust in the Omega's mouth when he takes in his appearance. Everyone disappears from the scene as John walks over to him leisurely, beaming at him as he imitates the gentlemen's stance, hand behind his back. He takes his hand and kisses the back of his fingers like Mycroft while looking him in the eye. Sherlock flushes quite noticeably and his heart rate quickens a little. He can't take his eyes off him.

"I saw that in a nickelodeon once, and I always wanted to do it."

Sherlock bursts into very ungainly giggles as John smiles and extends his arm to him, unlike Victor who takes his hand forcefully. Sherlock takes it and John proudly escorts him over to his fiancée, while attempting many ridiculous imitations of courteousness, making the Omega burst into more giggles.

Meanwhile, Sherlock is also very determined to show him off. He taps Victor on his shoulder just as the Countess and Captain Smith depart, "Victor... Surely you remember Mr. Watson?"

Victor and Mycroft turn at the sound of his voice and the name. The smile drops from Mycroft's face as he sees the appeal and the sight of Sherlock's hand tucked away in John's arm like he has never seen before. John is pokerfaced as Victor is almost caught off-guard, "Watson!" He looks from Mycroft and back down at John in undisguised shock, "That's amazing! You could almost pass for a gentleman!"

Mycroft regains himself. Victor believes that they have scored a point against him as he smiles at his brother-in-law.

John sighs in resignation when he understands that he has officially declared war on him, "Almost."

Victor lets out a strained laugh as Sherlock glares at him, "How extraordinary! Come along, Mycroft. It's already half-past seven."

And they march away from them, leaving the two of them immersed in conversation as they descend down to the reception room on D-deck. It's almost like Sherlock is leading John, who feels very out of place even in his fine clothes. Mycroft and Victor are greeting Sir Cosmo and Lady Lucille, with Andrea on Mycroft's arm. She looks no less stunning in a black and red evening-dress.

"Hello, Andrea dear! So remarkable this voyage, isn't it? Simply mad!"

"Completely lunatic." This is the first time many people have heard her speak.

Victor and Mycroft become engrossed in a conversation with Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon and Colonel Gracie, while Andrea, the Countess and Lucille discuss fashion. As they enter the swirling throng, Sherlock picots John smoothly showing him various notables.

"That is the Countess of Rothes. You'll like her, she's much more tolerable than the rest. And that's Captain Ed John Smith. He's going to retire after this voyage."

John nods.

"And that's J.J. Astor, the richest man on the ship and his little wifey Madeleine. She's in delicate condition, a courtesy of corsets."

John silently chuckles as they both see the uncomfortable way in which she tries to adjust her back and gasps for breath.

"And that's mining tycoon Benjamin Guggenheim, with his mistress Madame Aubert. His husband is at home with the children, of course, something that I'll also have to deal with from time to time."

John looks a little horrified but Sherlock tutts him down, "Not that I'll be very willing to say anything against it."

Victor, meanwhile, is accepting the praise of his Alpha counterparts, who are looking at Sherlock like a prize show horse.

"Congratulations, Trevor. He's splendid."

"Why, thank you!" He shares a smirk with Mycroft. Sherlock and John are quite close by, and they can hear something of the conversation.

"Victor's a lucky man," pipes in Colonel Gracie, "I know him well, and it can only be luck."

"How can you say that Colonel?" says Mycroft, "Victor Trevor is a great catch."

John almost snorts and they both rush away from there, keen to avoid attention, "I might be wrong... but I think Victor took fancy to the wrong person. Your brother is completely in love with him."

Sherlock bursts into raucous laughter, "Oh, he is! You have no idea."

"Oh, look who it is!" John points at the pink lady from before, now clad in royal blue, "That must be the husband."

"Indeed. He's trying his best to show off every last piece of jewellery they own!"

As she turns around, John's eyes are captured by an ostentatious necklace sitting on her creamy chest... a complex setting with a massive central heart-shaped blue stone which goes perfectly with her dress. It is huge... a rare malevolent diamond glittering with an infinity of scalpel-like inner reflections. Many women are staring at it, mostly in unconcealed jealousy.

"My God," he gasps, "will you look at that?"

Sherlock reminds himself that John is still very alien to their world, "Don't stare, John."

"Yeah, sorry," he mumbles, "They've tutored you rather well."

He frowns, "In what?"

"All the names and titles. It flew right past my head, except that delicate condition thing."

Molly Brown comes up grinning from behind them, looking good in a beaded black dress, in her own busty broad-shouldered way, "Care to escort a lady to dinner?"

Sherlock smiles as John offers his arm to her, grinning back, "Certainly." Meanwhile, Victor tries to win him back by calling him by the insufferable nickname, "Sweetpea?" He avoids it as far as possible. He finds it very embarrassing.

"Ain't nothin' to it, is there, John?"

"Yeah, you just dress like a pallbearer and keep your nose up." Sherlock snorts a little at that.

"Remember," she lowers her voice so that only he can hear her, "they're in love with money, so just act like you've got a loads of it and you're in the club. I'm off for now, you two enjoy," she winks at John and leaves. Meanwhile, Sherlock's grip on John's arm strengthens as he notices Madeleine Astor's appraising look and steers him away towards the other end of the dining saloon, like a ballroom at a grand palace, alive and lit by a constellation of chandeliers, full of elegantly dressed people and beautiful music from Wallace Hartley's small orchestra. As John and Sherlock enter and move across the room to their table, Victor, Mycroft and Andrea settle away from them, with the elder Holmes keeping a watchful eye on his younger brother introducing his newest friend to many other influential figures. Many seem quite charmed by John's good looks. He murmurs something to Andrea and she nods, before rising and walking out of the hall.

"Where did she go now?" Victor indicates at her retreating figure.

"To station Mr. Gregson near our suite." Seeing Victor's puzzled expression, he adds, "I'm exercising my own precautions."

Victor rolls his eyes, "Relax, Mycroft. He's just a stupid rat! I wouldn't want my valet missing dinner over such a trifle."

Mycroft doesn't say anything. Stupid people don't simply make their way into Sherlock Holmes' heart.

* * *

"Tell us of the accommodations in steerage, Mr. Watson," Mycroft smiles pleasantly at John, "I hear that they're quite good on this ship."

John is seated two seats away from Sherlock, who is flanked by Victor and Thomas Andrews. Also at the table are Molly Brown, Andrea, Ismay, Colonel Gracie, the Countess, Guggenheim, Madame Aubert, the Astors and the Duff-Gordons. John tries not to look too affronted by the question, instead choosing an answer that he knows Sherlock would certainly praise him for, although not openly.

"The best I've seen. Hardly any rats."

Most of the people succumb to laughter. They think that he is joking. Sherlock looks relieved as John steals a look at him and knows that he has spoken correctly. Victor is somewhat taken aback but his verbal defenses don't crumble, "Mr. Watson here is joining us from the third class. He was of some assistance to my fiancée last night."

And there it is again. _My fiancée_.

Furtive whispers are exchanged. John becomes the subject of clandestine glances. Now they're all feeling terribly liberal and dangerous. Guggenheim even bows in Sir Duff-Gordon's direction, speaking in a low voice, "What is Trevor hoping to prove, bringing this... bohemian... up here?"

"Oh, don't you worry about him!" Colonel Gracie comes to John's rescue before Sherlock can intervene, "He's a fine lad! Helped up young Mr. Holmes here when he had fallen... pardon me, almost fallen off the ship! Took all of it very nobly, this Watson boy here!"

Everyone on the table gasps at that. Mr. Andrews turns to Sherlock, "My dear boy, how did that happen-?"

"I'm sure we don't need the anecdote be repeated again, do we, Sherlock?"

Ignoring his brother, he mentions towards John, "I slipped and Mr. Watson here saved me from plunging into the waters."

"Dear Lord," the Countess looks panic-stricken, "You have our sincere thanks, Mr. Watson. Although Sherlock here can be very wayward sometimes, we all do adore him very much."

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically, mouthing 'Oh please' to John. John barely manages to hide his smile at the young stubborn Omega, who looks positively gleeful to see his brother losing for the first time. Sherlock motions surreptitiously for John to take his napkin off his plate as the waiters arrive. He manages to remove it only to find himself bamboozled by three different kinds of forks, two kinds of knives, a salad fork and a spoon. He blinks several times before turning to Molly for guidance, "Are these all for me?"

"Just start from the outside and work your way in."

Victor, meanwhile, notices John's dilemma and finds another way of embarrassing him. He speaks to him as if to a child, instructing him on what the waiter has just laid for him.

"This is foie gras. It's goose liver."

John looks slightly unsettled by the sound of it. He smiles politely, but the waiter isn't ready to leave him alone.

"How do you take your caviar, sir?"

John opens his mouth to answer, but Victor orders for him.

"Just a soupcon of lemon. You see, John, it improves the flavour with champagne."

He's about to be served when John shakes his head, looking very directly at Sherlock, "No caviar for me, thanks. Never did like it much."

Most of them laugh at that. John truly is ignorant. But the only thing that matters to him is the small honest smile that curves Sherlock's lips upwards, and the thought that it was a private joke between the two of them.

"And where exactly do you live, Mr. Watson?" Mycroft doesn't give up. He's all set to tear him apart.

"Well, right now my address is the RMS Titanic. After that, I'm on God's good humour."

Salad is served. John reaches for the fish fork. Sherlock gives him a look and picks up the salad fork, prompting him with his eyes. He changes forks.

"How is it you have the means to travel?"

John is never the one to be ashamed of what he is, "You see, I work my way from place to place. Some manual labour. Some sketching, sometimes as a medical assistant to GPs. I planned to save some for America. Never really managed to save enough. But then I won a ticket in here at a lucky hand in poker."

He glances at Sherlock, "A very lucky hand."

Ismay and the Countess seem very impressed by John's opportunistic view of life.

"All life is truly a game of luck!" remarks Colonel Gracie.

Victor sniggers at that, "A real man makes his own luck. Right, Watson?"

John nods tersely while Mycroft delivers another blow, "You find that sort of rootless existence appealing, do you?"

Molly looks at Mycroft sternly. He does not falter under her angry glare. He smiles away inscrutably.

John bites his lip as Sherlock looks shocked, "Yes, Mr. Holmes. I do," his eyes are cold as he tries to answer him as smartly as possible, "It's a big world, and I want to see it all before I go. My da was always going on about the ocean. He died in the town he was born in, and never saw it. You can't wait around, because you never know what hand you're gonna get dealt next. I've been on the road since my folks died. Something like that teaches you to take life as it comes at you.

"I love waking up in the morning not knowing what's gonna happen or who I'm going to meet," he motions openly towards Sherlock, "I always wanted to be a doctor, and I'm ready to work hard for it. You may laugh all you like, Victor. My mate Mike does that all the time. He thinks I'm naive. I think I dream big. For example, just the other night I was sleeping under a bridge, and now, here I am, on the grandest ship in the world, having champagne with you fine people. No one would have thought that, would they? So, I try an' make each day count."

Molly Brown raises her glass in a salute, "Well said, John! I wish Mr. Brown were half as good as you. He's one terrible speaker."

"Hear hear!"

Sherlock's eyes are transfixed onto those of John's as he raises his wineglass, "To making it count." Victor looks at him with confusion and alarm, seeing that he's losing the battle.

John smiles gratefully as everyone except Victor, Mycroft and Mr. Andrews raise their glasses in unison, "To making it count!" Meanwhile, Molly notices that Mr. Andrews, sitting next to her, is writing in his notebook, completely ignoring the conversation.

"Mr. Andrews, what are you doing? I see you everywhere writin' in this little book. What's that? _Increase number of screws in hat hooks from 2 to 3. _You build the biggest ship in the world and this preoccupies you?!"

Andrews smiles sheepishly.

"He knows every rivet in her," Ismay chuckles, "don't you Thomas? His blood and soul are in the ship. She may be mine on paper, but in the eyes of God she belongs to Thomas Andrews."

"Your ship is a wonder, Mr. Andrews," John is very sincere, "truly."

He smiles pleasantly, "Thank you, John."

The dinner proceeds very swiftly and pleasantly, with Sherlock guiding John through the various predictable stages. But their normal schedule is disrupted by a scuffle at the door. Sherlock's eyes travel over. There's Quartermaster Rowe, struggling with the stewards at the entrance.

"Lemme in, I say. S' about Mrs. Wilson!"

At the mention of the name, a man that Sherlock recognises as the pink lady's husband, pushes back his chair noisily and stands up. "What happened?" He looks very pale and ashen for someone enjoying the dinner.

John turns to see what was causing the commotion, and so do Molly and Mr. Andrews. At this point, many are throwing curious glances over in Mr. Wilson's direction.

"Mr. Wilson?"

Rowe is let in. His voice is very low but is heard very clearly owing to the pin-drop silence. However, he had the common-sense to mutter the message into the other man's ears. The latter blanches and suddenly goes very stiff. There's a sudden gasp from people as some of them catch the phrase 'fell overboard'. The shocking news is spread across at the speed of light. Mutterings, incoherent remarks and queries ensue. Some of the people at John's table risk a glance at Sherlock. Too many people falling overboard.

"What?" His eyes grow wide with shock. He looks like he's about to have a panic attack, "What did you say? What do you mean 'fell overboard'?"

"We...erm, your wife, sir, we managed to-haul her out but..." The Quartermaster looks dismayed as he finds himself withholding the attention of the room and the bringer of very bad news. He does not speak ahead as he sees colour draining from Mr. Wilson's cheeks alarmingly.

"Stuart!" A man sitting beside him, whom John recognises as Colonel Moran, comes to his aid, "Steady yourself! Fetch some brandy! Quick, man!"

His face, swallowed by an unearthly pallor now regains some colour as he takes a sip from the brandy flask that he offers him. He steadies himself, breathing in deeply. A woman near him, clad in a superb black and gold dinner gown fixes him under an unnatural stare, "Does she have a large blue stone around her-?"

"Mother!" Stuart Wilson is immensely horrified that all his mother could think of at the moment was their family heirloom, "Lead the way, please!"

Rowe nods and acquiesces but she is not mollified, "Answer me! Did she have the Heart of the Ocean around her neck?!"

He looks utterly shaken as he denies it with a startled nod, "Didn't see anything like that, ma'am. Such a thing oughta be seen."

There's a louder, more appalled gasp now. John finds himself slightly repulsed by the people he's surrounded with when he notices this little detail.

"Excuse me, ladies," she gets up, retaining her stoic demeanour, "Lead the way, Mr. Quartermaster. No need to accompany us, Colonel."

Colonel Moran casts a furtive glance around, his eyes rueful. People are looking at him like he's an alien, whispering openly and throwing accusatory glances in his direction. Suddenly he whips around to see that Wallace Hartley and his band have stopped playing and are surveying the situation with utmost anxiety.

"What are you morons looking at?" He bursts out at them, "Keep playin'!"

They nod apologetically, while murmuring angrily and start to play an extra cheerful tune.

At the other end of the dining saloon, an impressed Victor Trevor can be seen whispering into Mycroft's ears, "You were quite right, Mycroft. I wish you could predict the stocks as well."

The commotion dies down slowly as the party exits the room. By this time, dessert has been served and a waiter arrives with cigars in a humidor on a wheeled cart like nothing extraordinary had just happened. The men start clipping ends and lighting them. John turns back to see a mischievous glint in Sherlock's eyes before it disappears in a flash. He's almost sure that he has imagined it.

"What an unpleasant episode," Ismay remarks, "I think we better had return the ladies and the Omegas back to the rooms, shan't we?"

Sure enough, Victor's hands are on Sherlock's shoulders, "May I escort you back to the cabin, Sherlock?"

He manages a small glance in John's direction, who's rising from his chair, "I think I'll stay here with Andrea and the Countess."

Victor is quite surprised. Sherlock is actually volunteering to stay with the women. But he doesn't question him, seeing as it was as he always desired, "I won't be late. Just some-"

"I know. You are going to retreat into a cloud of smoke with Mycroft and congratulate each other on being masters of the universe."

"And nothing could be more apt, sweetpea!" Victor winks at him and sweeps past John without a second look. The latter walks back to Sherlock as he sees Victor's retreating figure, "John, must you go?"

He shrugs his shoulders resignedly, "Time for my coach to turn back into a pumpkin. Good night, Sherlock."

Andrea turns just in time to see Sherlock extend his hand towards John expectantly. She watches their exchange for a longer duration than she normally would have done, and then returns back to Lady Duff-Gordon and the Countess, cataloguing it to inform her employer/perhaps-paramour later.

"You quite like that, don't you?" John takes it and kisses it.

"I thought you were thorough with your manners, Mr. Watson."

John's smile fades a little as he feels a tiny chit being slipped into his hand. "See you _very_ soon, John."

He takes one last look at Sherlock watching him with keen anticipation and walks out of the saloon, slipping the chit stealthily into his pocket. It is only when he reaches outside does he open the note to read it.

**_Come at once if convenient. The clock._**

He turns it around as ink stains his fingers.

**_If inconvenient, come all the same._**

**_Make it count._**

He turns around to see that Sherlock has already disappeared from his place.

* * *

John crosses the A-Deck foyer, sighting Sherlock at the landing above. Overhead is the crystal dome. Sherlock has his back to him, studying the ornate clock with its carved figures of Honour and Glory. It is half-past-eight.

He goes up the sweeping staircase toward him. Sherlock turns, sees him... and smiles. By Jove, there's the same mischievous glint in his eyes. This time it does not disappear. It lingers, quite endearingly. John wants to curse every man and woman on this earth responsible for keeping this wonderfully amazing Omega cooped up inside four walls.

"So... what now?" He gazes up at him reverently.

"We're going to find out what really happened to Jennifer Wilson, John."

* * *

**E/N:** I love Mr. Andrews so much! In fact I might love him more than I love Rose or Jack.

I'm sorry for having changed the mystery to a murder one. But it fits so much better!

I'll give you one clue to this murder mystery. Sherlock and Jennifer Wilson have something in common.


	5. Mystery Aboard Titanic

**Summary:** Sherlock and John unravel the mystery of Jennifer Wilson's death... if it's in anyway mysterious.

* * *

**A/N:** I changed Colonel Wellington into Colonel Moran. My apologies.

Unbetaed work... feel free to point out errors because certain phrases don't really sound right to me.

I think I'll do the flying scene... it's the best thing in the movie... according to me anyway, and it'll go with the theme as well.

* * *

John is puzzled, "What do you mean? She fell overboard, didn't she?"

Sherlock smirks, "Did she now? You saw the family's reaction. Wasn't there something amiss?"

He thinks back to the ashen-faced husband and the ill-timed enquiry about the Heart Of The Ocean, "You think the-erm... husband pushed her? But he was there all the time."

"I'm not sure yet. That's why we're going to the boat deck."

"We?"

Sherlock nods reassuringly, making John smile, "Aye. We."

* * *

They walk out of the A-deck and proceed towards where Jennifer Wilson probably fell from, according to the sea boys anyway. John witnesses Sherlock transform completely into a trained bloodhound, eyes sparkling with the promise of adventure, brows drawn into two hard black lines. Years and years of being locked away in a golden cage crumble away to the sudden joy of newly found freedom and the very-much-required stimulation of his mind. He sets down with a small hand lens, examining the rails.

While Sherlock is completely obsessed with finding something-that-Heaven-only-knew on the railing, John observes his patient, careful movements. He also thinks about the little problem, tossing and turning it at the back of his head, but not for long as he notices Sherlock's face break into a triumphant smile.

"She was not pushed."

John does not understand the victorious look on his face as he points at the railing. His eyes narrow slightly.

"But she did not fall off either," he continues, "It cannot be an accident." He bends down and peers at his latest discovery: scratch marks on the white-painted gunwale due to the heels of her shoes.

"She jumped?"

"Precisely. But why?"

He thinks hard for a reason bad enough to drive a woman to her death, "Domestic abuse?" He remembers every single deduction that Sherlock had made about her.

"Don't be absurd, John. She was quite happy with Colonel Moran. She has no reason to jump. Come along, you're a doctor. You'll prove useful."

"Well... not yet..."

"I suppose that'll do, Doctor Watson M.D. We'll be just in time," says he with a mischievous smirk.

John returns it. The promise of adventure is infectious indeed.

* * *

"There aren't that many doctors aboard. I'm sure they'll be... _happy_ with some medical advice," says Sherlock as they go to the Quartermaster who had informed the party of the bad news. John quirks his eyebrow at the way Sherlock says 'happy'. He looks like he knows more about the suicide than what is apparent to his eyes.

"He's a doctor," he announces as they enter the Quartermaster's cabin. Rowe looks up surprised. He recognizes John from that day, but he doesn't understand how come he's dressed in such fine clothes.

"Sorry sir?"

"For Mrs. Wilson!" says he impatiently, "I've found a doctor. I remember you saying about not finding a doctor, you moron! Surely your pea-sized brain can retain that much!"

The man looks a little spooked as Sherlock towers above him, "Yes, right. Q Hitchins must have sent you, hasn't he?"

Sherlock looks exceedingly pleased, "Care to lead the way?"

"Yes, come right along!"

Sherlock leaves the situation to John's charge. He does only the listening part, whilst smiling inwardly at his Alpha friend's preparedness. Sherlock cannot recall the last time he had an Alpha friend. Most of them looked at him with either hatred or resentment during the childhood, and blinding lust during the teenage years.

"We pulled her out twenty minutes ago. The boys saw her plungin' down and rushed to save her with Emergency Boat 1. I hurried to inform the squire about it and came back here. That's all I know."

"You implied that she had died."

"Yes, but we need a professional opinion, don't we? The hospital staff does not like being disturbed during dinner. And we need a doctor's declaration."

Sherlock felt John stiffen a little beside him. Playing fake doctor doesn't fit well with him. Sensing the tension, he decides to cut in, "And where's her body now?"

Rowe frowns at him, probably wondering what an Omega was doing in all of this. Sherlock returns it ten times worse, causing him to look away.

"In the operating room. It's being led there as we speak. The husband was in quite a shock for some time."

John was beginning to see something wrong now. Mr. Wilson was abusive. He couldn't have been very sad. Sherlock nods upon seeing his enlightened face.

They go down the elevator to the C Deck and down a staircase to D Deck till they come to the said room. Stuart Wilson and his mother are there, along with Able Officer Callahan and a steward. The mother is quite aloof while the husband has his dead wife in his arms, looking quite shaken. He rises upon seeing the newcomers.

"Who are these gentlemen, Mr. Quartermaster?" His voice is deceptively dead. Sherlock smiles upon seeing the dead woman, as if it had given the case and the theories in his mind a new direction.

"Relax sir," John says reassuringly, "I'm a doctor. Now if you would allow me..."

"Yes, doctor," he gulps, backing away from Jennifer Wilson's body, "Of course. She isn't dead, doctor. Tell me she isn't dead."

John looks at his friend, expecting him to appear like he wants to snap at him that loss of pulse means the person has flat lined. However, Sherlock's expression is like granite as he gives him a curt nod, giving him permission to examine her.

"Waste of time... getting a doctor," says the mother irritably, "She's dead already! It's the damn English... doing everything by the book! And I have to miss my dinner over such a trifle!"

"Mother!" Stuart Wilson looks confused and extremely embarrassed by her conduct. He turns to Sherlock and gives him a sloppy ashamed look, something which is acknowledged by a slight twitch of the lips. He looks confused at the scent of an Omega, but looks away towards the doctor anyway. Sherlock notices this little detail and moves away towards a washbasin close by. He takes a soap bar and washes his hands till he's satisfied, thereafter joining the little group huddled by the sickbed.

John sits down between them and takes her pulse and her temperature, while trying his best not to scowl at the mother. He frowns a little and looks up at Sherlock instinctively, who surreptitiously gestures at him not to say anything. He looks down at the body again and sees something else that is wrong, though he cannot exactly put his finger on it. He hopes that Sherlock at least does and withdraws himself after performing several other checks.

"Dead, "he says in a bland voice, "Hypothermia. Loss of core body temperature, that is."

"Thank you doctor," says the mother and folds herself away from rest of the party. An aura of 'I told you so' emanates from her. A seaman arrives with Assistant Surgeon Simpson, shouting 'I've finally found a doctor, sirs!' just as the Quartermaster Rowe and Able Officer Callahan thank John and Sherlock for their assistance. They excuse themselves out of there. This is their cue to leave. They walk through the corridor fast and then to the stairs, giggling a little in the beginning and then start laughing hard at their narrow escape. John is mesmerised by the wonderful steely glitter in Sherlock's eyes.

"Now they're going to think I'm an idiot! When that other doctor tells 'em that she drowned!"

"Relax," Sherlock holds back an amused smile, but can't help it as he chuckles again, "You make a brilliant impression of an idiot. At any rate, your _illustrious_ career hasn't started yet, Doctor Watson, so don't worry."

John rolls his eyes, placating himself on the fact that Sherlock thought that everybody was an idiot, "Go on, tell me. What did I miss?"

"Nothing," he appears much more cheerful than John has ever seen him, "You got far more than I do."

"I did?"

He clears his throat, now they're talking business, "You came in contact with the body. Tell me what you gathered."

"Well... she died hours ago. She had quite a struggle when she died. She did not die of hypothermia, that's for certain. She drowned."

Sherlock looks quite impressed, "They might actually make a good doctor out of you. And a marginally good actor too."

"Well," John nods stiffly. He is never one to bask in congratulations or praise, even if it came from Sherlock himself, "I had some practice in the saloon. So why did you ask me to lie?"

"Because lying would get us to the truth. I need some air. Come on, then. We've got a little... trouble to cause to a certain colonel."

"Trouble? Care to explain what happened there?"

Sherlock grins appreciatively, "A con. Very big con. We need to move fast. The scent won't last long."

His cryptic words confuse John to no end.

* * *

They make their way back up to A-deck. He still hasn't disclosed his plan to John yet. He requests a passing steward for some water and smoothes down his curls, sticking them against his scalp. John watches his bizarre actions but doesn't say anything. They stop walking after sometime. The entrance to the smoke room is a few feet away from them.

"I bet Colonel Moran will still be there," says he to John, "playing the part of keeping a cheerful facade with a tinge of worry at the back of his head."

"Colonel Moran... that man Mrs. Wilson is having an affair with?"

"Precisely. He must be her confidante, being the woman's paramour. At this point only he can lead us to where she is."

John sees stars, both literally and figuratively, in bewilderment. A crease appears between his brows and he settles into deep thought. When he sees that he can't understand the giant leaps Sherlock is taking, he finally turns to his last resort, "Sherlock I don't..."

There's no one there beside him. He looks around. There's practically no sign of Sherlock. Some people stare strangely at him when they see him talking to himself. His eyes wander all over the place till they find the Omega _inside_ the smoking room. John can't help but utter a quiet and helpless 'bastard' under his breath.

* * *

Sherlock scans the First Class Smoking Parlour for Moran. He spots him sitting at the other end of the room with Ismay, Colonel Gracie and Sir Duff-Gordon. The next thing his eyes rush to is Victor's location, who is sitting nearby with Guggenheim, Astor and Strauss, discussing the impact of various government policies on industry. Sherlock hesitates for a moment, but solving the case takes priority over everything. He notices a steward's uniform and decides to grab some for himself. Luckily, that disinfectant-ish smell from the hospital brand soap is strong enough to camouflage his true smell. He would have sent John inside instead only if he had faith in his pickpocketing abilities. He should have learnt when he had the chance.

He grabs a glass of whiskey and "accidentally" pours it down a steward's front, keeping the episode well away from Victor's table. The steward looks at his ruined uniform with resentment, but doesn't say anything except for profuse apologies, "Oh, sorry sir!" he goes into autopilot, "Extremely sorry for that, sir!"

But what he doesn't realized is that in his distress, Sherlock manages to pull off his bowtie with one smooth tug.

"Watch where you're going, moron!" He responds like a typical first class snobbish Alpha. He ties the bowtie around his neck.

Next, he buttons his jacket and moves toward Moran, sticking a match for him to light the cigar for him. No one notices that the steward is none other than Sherlock, not even the ever-watchful Gregson. They're all busy in their cards, smoking, drinking and talking. Not one person notices Sherlock's fingers creeping into the Colonel's trouser-pocket to draw out the key to his cabin. He takes out one out of the two identical keys inside a ring, examines it and replaces the other into his trouser pocket. Having got his prize, he sneaks out of the parlour to join John who is quite ill-tempered at this moment, but mostly exasperated. Sherlock does not process this and waves the little key in front of him.

"I've got the keys to Colonel Moran's stateroom! Now I know in which room he stays," He whispers excitedly.

John's eyes widen in astonishment, all temper tantrums forgotten, "What?! Why? How?"

"He's the one who can lead us to Mrs. Wilson."

"What? Mrs... Sherlock!" John grabs his arm and forces him to face him. Sherlock looks at John's strong grip and back into his blue eyes, causing him to release him at once, "You haven't told me a single thing about what's happening!"

It strikes him. He hasn't told John anything in his desperation to solve the problem, "Give me a minute, John. I am not fond of unfinished melodies. Now this key," they talk as they go down the elevator to the C Deck, "Belongs to C-70. We'll sit and wait there till she comes."

"Who?"

Sherlock glances at the Elevator Operator and then whispers in John's ear as quietly as possible, "Mrs. Wilson," leaving John's mouth open in undisguised shock.

* * *

Sherlock opens the door and whispers to John, "About half-an-hour should do it. Victor usually returns to me by ten o'clock latest. The master-at-arms said that he will be here by then. Meanwhile I have some time to test my theory."

They had come to the C Deck only after informing the master-at-arms about the situation, despite Sherlock's demands for the opposite. But even he could not deny John's reasonable assertion that the police should be involved in this mystery. Being a colonel, Moran could have firearms anywhere.

John looks around at the room as Sherlock closes the door behind them, "So we're just going to wait here?"

"Much more." He takes the liberty to walk inside and points at a safe, "I can crack this model in ten minutes at the most."

"Had a lot of practice, huh?" John looks at the tall, barely adult Omega in front of him: conman, pickpocket, safecracker, and what not. He wonders what all he is going to see of Sherlock as the night proceeds.

"You could say that," says he as he grabs a pen, sitting down on a stool and peering at his newest puzzle, "Cracked every single one Mycroft ever bought."

John gives out a chuckle, making Sherlock laugh with him as well.

"Back to work."

John watches as Sherlock's eyebrows knit together with concentration, his sure hand dancing over the dial slowly bringing it to rest on the number 32. He writes the number on his palm and sets to work again. After five minutes, he presses a keen ear against the cold metal door to listen for the last tiny, but tell-tale click. Beads of sweat appear along his hairline and trace their way down his forehead. After a few tense seconds, he sits back with a knowing smile. After entering the last number of the combination, Sherlock opens the safe as if it were his own. Inside, sitting regally is what he had been expecting all along: the Heart Of The Ocean.

John's breathing stops for a minute as he takes in the appearance of the large cold blue diamond.

"Brilliant!" They both exclaim at once, and then start laughing together.

"Now what?"

"We put it back, and we wait for them."

* * *

Sherlock would never forget that night as he spent it sitting beside John inside Moran's stateroom. They were quiet, none of them made any noise as they sat in wait for the guilty man and his mistress to come in. That wait seemed terribly long as they both sat shoulder to shoulder. He did not hear a sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet he knew that John sat near him, in the same state of nervous tension in which he himself was there. What if they had changed plans? What if this... what if that? A lot of what if's were clouding his mind. His hearing was becoming more acute as time passed by. Slowly he could hear the occasional call of a steward across the corridor, or that of the waves breaking under the ship. But finally after what seemed like eternity, they heard a click and the sound of a key turning inside a lock. Sherlock touched John on the wrist as a signal and as an assurance whether he had fallen asleep within ten minutes that had passed.

The door closed as the sound of a man's heavy breathing and a woman's heels came from the direction of the exit. There was also the sound of a switch being clicked on as the room instantaneously filled with light. Sherlock sprang from his hiding place near the door, taking the two newcomers by surprise and peeling away the veil off her face. There's Jennifer Wilson, looking appalled at Sherlock's knowledge of the events.

The Colonel smiles at Sherlock's victorious face, "I suppose you've been following the apparent suicide for sometime, haven't you? I must compliment you on your perseverance, Mr. Holmes the younger."

John rises from his place, resuming his place beside Sherlock. Jennifer Wilson blanches and she rushes inside.

"And I you, Colonel. I must say, the plan was made very beautifully."

"How long have you known?"

"Since I heard that The Heart Of The Ocean was missing."

"Shoot away, then. Impress me."

Sherlock sniggers at his comment, "I don't need to. I've got all the praise I need." He looks at John and smiles. His heart melts at this remark from him.

"It's such a shame," he retorts, "You're so useless as an Omega."

"Not anymore," says he, thinking of John, "come along now, sir. I trust you had the acquaintance of the master-at-arms outside the stateroom." With this, he slips his own key into the lock, causing the colonel to let out a surprised yelp. He had believed that he had Sherlock and John locked inside and at his own convenience. But Sherlock is very thorough.

The burly master-at-arms marches inside with another young officer, probably his first year as a policeman, finally slapping handcuffs on the wrists made for them, "Mrs. Jennifer Stuart Wilson, I arrest you on the charge of the murder of Miss Deborah Smith, and you, Colonel Moran for assisting her through it."

"Wait a minute!" John cries out, "what about Mr. and Mrs. Wilson?"

The young officer claps his hands in glee, "You mean we'll be making more arrests? Delightful!"

Sherlock looks positively murderous. Seeing this, John cuts in, "Take them, Mr. Bailey. I think we'll come in for the statement tomorrow, won't we Sher-Mr. Holmes?"

"Indeed, Mr. Watson. Laterz."

Saying this, he exits the cabin with John closely behind. After they've gone quite a distance and reach the poop deck, John finally gives in.

"You told me your theory, but now you've GOT to tell me how you figured it out!"

Sherlock smiles understandingly, "You see, the original plan was the Colonel's idea, which he fed into Jennifer Wilson's mind and which they both fed into her family's heads. I already told you that Mr. Wilson was going into recession. Hence, he'd do almost anything for money. So, if somehow, Jennifer Wilson were to slip off accidentally into the waters _along_ with The Heart Of The Ocean with a considerable number of half-asleep and completely brainless eyewitnesses watching the incident, the family could claim the insurance money for her life and for the diamond as well, thus letting them stay afloat for the rest of their lives. And they don't get to really lose the diamond as well. I understood that the husband was also involved. When you were about to check Mrs. Wilson's body, he talked in negative, asked you to tell her that 'she isn't dead'. A regular husband would ask you to tell him that 'she's alive'. People's minds work that way. He knew that his wife had faked her death. So far?"

John nods, showing that he understood. He does not lose Sherlock now. He catches along with his speed, as if he has always been used to it.

"You see, the family were playing their part when they were asking for the Heart Of The Ocean, whether it was gone. I told you about their behaviour. The mother was a beautiful actress. She acted just like you could expect an upper class mother-in-law to react. It's the husband who gave it all away. So, lady shows their family heirloom to everyone in the reception hall, then jumps to her apparent death. Must be a brave woman, doing all that by herself with only one accomplice, their maid Maude. I applaud her nerves. Anyway, she sees the opportune moment and jumps. Probably a sort of rope tied around her waist. She gets to the A-deck rail aft, which is quite deserted as all the people are inside, enjoying the dinner party, cuts the rope just as the maid helps her with the body of Miss Deborah Smith, their other maid. This was the one link I was missing which you provided me with. Since everyone needed to see and haul out a body, they provided them with one. They threw Miss Smith over and as those donkeys looked on, they saw the lady plunging into the water-"

"I know that. You told me. I'm asking you how you figured it out. The clues!"

Sherlock lets out an exaggerated sigh, "Why? First, it was the mysterious disappearance of the necklace. I saw that it was apparent suicide. But no one ever commits suicide like that, with the jewel around their necks. You may recount my example on that. I had myself flung this away," he shows John his engagement ring, "before I ran to jump off. Even though I'm not a very sentimental person."

You don't say, John thinks automatically. The clues now come to him, and the missing pieces fitting into one large picture. He beams at the utter devilry of the plan.

"And then the dead body itself. She had Jennifer Wilson's face on, an outcome that can clearly be achieved by surgery as you told me when we were visiting the master-at-arms' cabin. Now, such a surgery must be done for a very specific purpose. Taking in the cost and the knowledge of Mr. Wilson's economic state, murder is ruled out and a bigger picture comes in. What? Something that gave them millions in exchange for thousands. And how did I know that dead woman wasn't Jennifer Wilson? Simple. You said that Jennifer Wilson was supposed to be dead hours ago, didn't you? But she did show up at the dinner party. Despite what you say, some people do have faith in your medical abilities, John."

John's eyes narrow. The silence isn't that of finality. He peers into Sherlock's eyes until the latter gives in, "Okay, fine. Why don't you try to understand?! The evidence was right under your nose, quite literally in fact! You see but you don't observe. I told you that she wears too much makeup to hide her bruises."

"Yes."

"Well, if it was she who was in the water, the makeup would've been washed away, won't it? And then you would've seen them, right? But they weren't there. But I think that," says he delightedly, "The best part was Jennifer Wilson's plan to cheat her family and run away with Colonel Moran and then Colonel Moran's plan to take the money and run away. Family cons insurance company. Dead wife cons family. Dead wife's paramour cons her. Splendid, don't you think?"

John chortles at that. The two of them lean against the rail, relaxing after a very hefty evening. But it isn't yet over. An idea strikes John and this time he grabs Sherlock's hand, his fingers fitting between the spaces of his perfectly. Sherlock looks at their linked hands in surprise.

"Come with me," says John, pulling him away from the rails.

"Where?"

"You deserve this. You gave me an evening in the first class dining saloon where people liked and hated me in equal amounts and a very much action-packed evening after that. You brought justice to the killers of Deborah Smith. This is all I have to offer you as a 'thank you'."

Sherlock still can't understand what John wants to offer him, "John... you don't have to thank me-"

"Shut up, you git!" Even the most rude thing he says is dipped in warmth, "You are coming with me, Sherlock! I've watched you the whole day and it's like you've never... No. You, sir, are coming with me to the party!"

Sherlock snorts, "You think I want to go back to Andrea and Lucille and discuss with them the latest designs in La Mode Illustrée-?"

John gives out a laugh, "What have they done to you to call such a boring thing a party? No, I meant the party in the Third Class General Room! Your idea of fun is stealing others' wallets and replacing them back! You need to have some _real_ fun."

Sherlock looks mildly surprised while his eyes shine with true excitement at the prospect of going to the world he has never had set his eyes upon. He nods, strengthening his grip on John's hand. The sight is quite endearing and John can't help but smile at him goofily.

"Come on, then," he tugs at his hand, "It's ten-thirty. They stay up till twelve. I'll show you what a real party is!"

* * *

**E/N: **And before you ask me, yes, the Titanic did have a hospital, and quite amusingly, it was located on the same floor as the First Class Dining Saloon, though not directly accessible.

Ratings and Warnings can change any day. Don't rely on them. It all depends on my mood. If I'm feeling particularly gracious, John and Sherlock might both fit on that door. If I'm feeling hateful, they might not.

Credit for fishing Titanic facts goes to magnificenttitanic on tumblr. I hope I was thorough with my research. I also hope I was equally thorough with everything in my life :D


	6. Celebration Time

**Summary: **Here we are to the point when John starts to fall in love with Sherlock and realises that he would do anything in his power and beyond to save him and make him break free: the party and the not exactly drunken conversation after that. Sherlock, however, is very confused with the newly developing feelings towards another Alpha when he is already promised to someone.

* * *

**A/N:** Phew, finally got here. Thought I'd cover this in chapter 4 when I had first started writing the fic, but then the case fic popped into my mind. Please tell me you liked it. PLEEEEEEASE!

In Chapter 3, I gave the date as 12th April, whereas in the movie it is 13th April. I did that because I felt it necessary to show the real and the oppressive power dynamics b/w Sherlock and Mycroft, and Sherlock and Victor, and the reason why he would choose his freedom and his love over his family.

* * *

Crowd is led and alive with music, laughter and chaos carrying on. An ad hoc band is gathered near the upright piano, honking out lively stomping music on fiddle, accordion and tambourine. People of all ages are dancing, drinking beer and wine, smoking, laughing, even brawling.

Sherlock has never seen such vivacity before. His eyes sparkle as countless people in the Third Class General Room present themselves as subjects for deductions. His mind has never felt so exhilarated as he soaks in the onslaught of information. Everyone has their own story to tell. Sherlock had seen that when he had entered the General Room earlier that morning, but then his mind had been preoccupied. But now... it was just so overwhelming.

_Two brothers, was a fisherman, youngest son is a shoeshine..._

_Swedish, miner, chimney sweep, stayed in London for three years maximum..._

John notices his face and claps him lightly on the shoulder, "No thinking now. We're at a party!"

His one hand is still entangled in that of John's as he leads him around the dancing men and women. People seem to remember him as they openly point at him and talk. Sherlock does not really mind as turns his head away. John comes near Mike and the two Swedes, who stands up at the sight of an Omega and does a very lousy imitation of a gentleman's bow, making the corner of his lip twitch upwards in amusement.

"Mike, Sherlock. Sherlock, Mike, my mate," John shouts the introduction above all the noise.

Mike extends his hand towards Sherlock, expecting a handshake but John simply shakes his head, motioning sneakily at him to kiss his hand. Sherlock notices this and glares at John, because only John has right to do so. Mike watches the two of them with mirth and then goes in for the handshake instead.

The song ends and everybody applauds the band. They beam and cheer loudly.

"Bravo! Bravo! Let's hear some more!"

"Thank you! Thank you all!"

Meanwhile Greg and Molly come to their table, sweating profusely from all the dancing. Molly looks very pretty in a plain black high-collared rag blouse with a embroidered red shawl and a long flowing red skirt. They recognise Sherlock at once. "Oh, look what we have here!" says Greg, "Hello squire!" He extends his hand to him, expecting to kiss Sherlock's hand. But Sherlock simply smirks at the sight of Molly's arm around that of Greg tighten. Meanwhile John cuts in, "Go dance with Molly, will you?"

His smile widens at the thought of John not liking the idea of Greg flirting with him. The next song starts and Greg and Molly shoot away.

"Is it okay if I put my hand here, love?" he asks her cheekily, placing his hand on the small of her back upon seeing that the next song is more upbeat. She nods excitedly and they rush away, picking up the momentum.

"Mr. Watson! Mr. Watson!" comes up the little girl Cora in her squeaky voice. Sherlock watches their exchange fondly as John smiles kindly at her and bends down to her height, "Cora dear, you should be in bed and not here with all the booze-" he stops himself before he can say any more inappropriate things.

She says something that John does not understand, but which makes Sherlock burst out with laughter.

"What?!" he extends his ear to her. She almost shouts, but he still can't understand her. Sherlock plops down on a chair with Mike and pulls John down to him, "She's saying that she sneaked out of her bed and came here."

"Oh!" John and Mike laugh out loud too, "Such a mischievous girl!"

She pulls John down again and this time he understands her, "You want me to dance with you?"

She nods excitedly and then points at Sherlock. He raises his eyebrows in slight uncertainty as John smiles, "Oh, you want to dance with him too?"

She nods again, flashing her little teeth. Mike looks faux-offended.

"Why not me?"

She pulls down John again. This time all three of them are anxious about what she has to say. John escapes into silent giggles.

"What?!" They both ask together.

"She does not want heavy Mr. Stamford to step on her feet!"

Now Mike is really offended, "Bugger off!"

"Mike, for God's sake. She's a kid!" Mike mumbles something incoherent to that, followed by, "Come on, Sherlock. I'll get you some drinks. But no wine, okay?"

"Don't need any," he smirks at him, "had plenty of that rubbish upstairs."

God, that violinist is terrible!" says Mike as he saunters off. This suddenly gives Sherlock an idea. He stands up and goes to the playing band, to girl who's playing the fiddle, "May I cut in, miss?"

She smiles kindly and surrenders it over to him, curtseying low. He looks at the band and the rest of the people, including John. They're all anxious about what he's going to play, and whether it's going to be good or not, or simply dreadful classical screeching like his clothes promise it to be. But he simply barks at the tambourine player, who has never seen an Omega before, "Set the rhythm, man! Have you dropped dead?"

People chortle around him, some out of surprise, others out of the embarrassment colouring the tambourine player's cheeks red, "Sorry, squire."

Sherlock picks up the lively tune beautifully, playing along with whatever gypsy melody comes to his mind. And it's damn good. The band picks up after him. Everyone goes back to dancing. John gapes at him, mouth slightly open in awe at the sight of Sherlock playing the fast-paced tune. He updates Sherlock's profile in his mind: conman, pickpocket, safecracker, violinist. Cora tugs at his sleeve to draw his attention back to him and Sherlock beams at him as John starts dancing with Cora, or tries to, with her standing on his feet.

Sherlock is not used to playing such lively music, but his enthusiasm and his happy mood serves to make the tune like that. It does feel good to bring so many smiles on everyone's faces all at once, but mostly on John's face. He enjoys himself more than he has ever done during all other times in his life put together.

The tune ends and everyone applauds extra loud as Sherlock bows to everyone in a gesture of 'thank you' before resuming his seat. Mike leaves his place to get some more drinks for Sherlock as Greg and Molly are back again, holding hands. She looks back to see her sister calling to her. Greg looks at her sadly.

"Within a few minutes," she promises, and gives him a little peck on his cheek, surprising everyone at the table. She darts away, very red in her face as Greg stares after her, smiling like an idiot. The men at the table whistle loudly at him, grunting in appreciation. They even clap him on his shoulder for being the first among them to land a good-looking girl. Sherlock watches the whole episode while draining Mike's glass completely in one sip.

"Bloody hell," Mike stares at Sherlock with his mouth agape, "that was fast!"

"It was, wasn't it?" says Greg, his fingers trailing over where she had kissed him.

"Dricka konkurrens va, kompis?" _Drinking competition huh, mate?_ says the Swedish challengingly, upon seeing Sherlock's ability to drain the entire volume in one sip. But Sherlock does not know Swedish, "WHAT?"

The Swede shouts in his ear, "Dricka konkurrens va, kompis?" again. Although he does not understand it, he somehow gets the idea and agrees, "You can't beat me!" says he, all societal norms forgotten.

"Skräp!" _Rubbish_. He shouts and gathers his friends, who cheer him loudly. Sherlock sticks out his tongue, "You're going down!"

"NO!" Mike groans. He is the one who has to work overtime and bring everyone drinks whenever there's a drinking competition.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" They all chant. Sherlock joins in, his eyes often finding their way back to John dancing with the little girl. John is nice with children, he thinks.

Mike gives in, complaining loudly to anyone who cared to listen. Most Alphas look surprised to see an Omega drink and smoke with them, but they get over it quite quickly.

"Okay, men!" A young Irish comes up, acting as the coordinator, "No less than ten. Three, two, one, go!"

Sherlock and Bjorn, the other Swede drown pint after pint. It is only a matter of minutes till John arrives at the scene to find Sherlock on the verge of being smashed and making the whole party laugh at his scandalous deductions about other passengers who are dancing at a distance. He's a hit with the steerage folks, who've never had such a fun Omega party with them. Despite being Alphas, the whole lot of them treat him with respect and reverence instead of as an object of lust, something that Sherlock has never experienced since his teenage years.

"And what about 'im?" says the Irish fellow, pointing at a large man playing the accordion.

Sherlock crinkles his nose at that man, "Has had two wives. Last one ran away with a Beta," everyone laughs at that, "Worked in circus for some time. Erectile dysfunction."

John now sees that it's time to get Sherlock out of there.

"Okay that's enough," he takes Sherlock's hand and drags him up, "You're coming with me. Thanks gents!"

"No..." Sherlock frowns, looking quite confused, "But we haven't finished the game yet!"

"Yes, you have. You won, didn't you hear?"

His face breaks into a dreamy smile, "I did, didn't I?" and he sticks out his tongue to Bjorn for the second time, "Told ya. No one can beat me!"

The men at the table begin to argue, but John and Sherlock run away before they can say much. They return to Cora. Fortunately, Sherlock is sober enough to talk properly to her, but not enough to dance with her.

"I'm tired, Mr. Watson," says she with a yawn, "I'll dance with Mr. Holmes tomorrow."

John smiles and pats her cheek lightly, "That's a good girl. Now, you go to the ladies over there. I'm gonna dance with him, alright?"

Cora scampers off. John grabs Sherlock's hand and pulls him up, "Dance with me."

"I don't know how to dance," he confesses sadly, as if his lack of knowledge will not entitle him to be John's dance partner.

But he simply laughs, "Neither do I, just go with it. We're gonna have to get a little bit closer."

They face each other. John is a little unsure as he takes his right hand in his left. His other hand slides to the small of Sherlock's back even though John is the shorter one. It is an electrifying moment as they come very close to each other, their chests almost touching. John can't help but inhale his intoxicating whiff and summons all the confidence in the world before flashing a smile at him.

"Just move with me. Don't think."

The music starts and they are off. A little awkward at first as John has never danced with someone taller than him and because Sherlock has never danced at all. But then they start to get into it. He grins at John as he starts to get the rhythm of the steps.

"Wait... stop!"

John stops for a moment as Sherlock takes off his suit jacket while undoing the collar and the shirt cuffs. Then he grabs John and they plunge back into the fray, dancing faster as the music speeds up.

Sherlock closes his eyes as they go along with the music, holding onto John, almost crashing into everyone. The scene is rowdy and rollicking. A table gets knocked over as a drunk crashes into it. And in the middle of it... Sherlock dances with John, eyes still closed and heart pumping with elation. The steps are fast and they both shine with sweat. A space opens around them, and people watch them, clapping as the band plays faster and faster.

Suddenly John spots Greg and Molly getting up on a platform. Dancing has eliminated the need for verbal communication. She does not have to stutter while talking. He whirls her, then she responds by whirling him... Greg's eyes go wide when he realizes she's stronger than he is.

"Hey, look," John points at them and they both stumble onto the platform as well. Sherlock carefully observes John's feet tapping in perfect rhythm with the music.

"Your go." He says to Sherlock, who is no less as he too taps his feet like John, giving him a challenging look. John claps along with the others now that Sherlock knows how to dance. They laugh at each other's successes as Sherlock grabs his right arm and they just go around in circles like small children. Sherlock shouts in giddy joy. He has never felt so free, so alive before, not even when he had run away from his house. That time, he was very alone, but now he had John, even if only for five more days.

The tune ends in a mad rush. They step down and John moves away from Sherlock with a flourish, allowing him to take a bow. Exhilarated and slightly tipsy, he grabs Mike's hat and does a graceful curtain call bow. Everyone laughs and applauds at all the young couples.

They move to a table, flushed and sweaty. Sherlock grabs Bjorn's cigarette and takes a big drag. He's feeling cocky. Greg is grinning, holding hands with Molly. Suddenly, he's challenged into an arm wrestling contest by Olaus, the other Swede. Greg looks quite scared but prepares to go in, because it's in front of Molly that they have challenged him, but Sherlock leans down and mumbles something into Greg's ear before he can take the chair. John looks at him curiously as Greg's face brightens up.

"You can't win!" He sneers at the big Swedish man, who only laughs at him.

"What did you tell him?" John asks Sherlock as he lights a cigarette and winks at John, "To wait for the opportune moment."

"Yeah man, come on!" Mike cheers both of them and clasps both his hands around theirs. "One, two, three!" He lets go.

The competition is not very tough. Greg appears to be losing to him. The Swede grows cocky as he hears his friends' cheers. Greg screws up his face, deriving his strength from Molly's cheers as he tries hard to snap Olaus' wrist down with a sudden burst of strength but he fails every time. Just when Sherlock sees that he's seconds away from losing, he inserts the cigarette between Greg's lips. Greg takes a long drag and blows all the smoke into Olaus' face. In a moment of weakness, the back of his hand collides with the tabletop, making Greg the winner.

"Whoa, ho!" cries out John, "That was clever!"

Greg jumps up with joy. People look at him like he is their new hero because no one has ever beaten Olaus. Molly runs into his arms and hugs him tightly. The Swede is still coughing.

"Fuskare! Bedragare!" he shouts. _Cheater. Deceiver._

"You think you're big, tough Alphas?" Sherlock teases, "Brains before brawns, you moron!"

And then all in Olaus' gang realize that Sherlock is the mischief maker. Before they can teach him a good lesson, all Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics forgotten, Sherlock grabs John's hand and they run away from there. They laugh merrily and come out on the boat deck.

"That was crazy!" John remarks with a hiccup.

"I know, but it was fun!"

The stars blaze overhead, so bright and clear that one can see the Milky Way. Sherlock and John walk along the row of lifeboats. Still giddy from excitement, they are both humming a tune which neither of them recognises. It just is sort of reflection on how happy Sherlock feels as his fingers are entangled in those of John's. It's almost twelve, way past the ten o'clock curfew on the third class passengers, but no one seemed to care. It was her maiden voyage after all. Everybody had a reason to celebrate.

They fumble the tune and break down laughing. They have reached the First Class Entrance, but don't go straight in, not wanting the evening to end. Through the doors the sound of the ship's orchestra wafts gently. Everyone wants to bathe in Titanic's luxuries for as long as possible.

Sherlock grabs a davit and leans back, staring at the cosmos. John follows his gaze and back at him, taking in his smell again. Sherlock is stunning, he notes for the umpteenth time, but what is priceless is what lay inside him: his pure heart, his great brain, the madness buried inside and his unconsciously kind nature, and something else, something unnamed. He does not take his hand away while he lets his gaze roam across his deliciously exposed neck. He rubs over his thumb, making him sigh contentedly. Sherlock looks down at their hands, and retracts his away. John lets him, the curve of his lips inverting in disappointment.

"You know..." says he, going to the rail and leaning against it, "my Father... he never let me complete school. Mycroft once rebelled against it... just once, and then he... dropped the topic altogether... He thought he could conceal it, but... I saw two clear cigar marks on his wrist..."

John leans on the rail next to him, his hand just touching his. It is the slightest contact imaginable, and all either one of them can feel is that square inch of skin where their hands are touching. This time Sherlock does not remove his hand, and neither does John. Sherlock's skin feels feverish, or maybe it was just how John was feeling at the moment. It is soft, almost raw in the face of the heat emanating from him. If only a square inch of contact felt so good, then...

"Did I tell you that you were brilliant this evening?"

John must have told him that a million times, but this is the first time that Sherlock has time to acknowledge it. He gives him a lopsided smile, which is mostly hopeful, "You think?"

He turns to face the Omega and sees it. Sherlock was not made for the life he led and would lead if he married Victor. He was meant to be a free bird, Omega or not. He was not private property, he was not ought to be so. Suddenly he wishes that Sherlock had never met Victor Trevor, or that he had never been born an Omega at all.

But it did matter to John. It did matter that he was an Omega. More so, an Unbonded Omega.

"I think," John says quietly, now fully sober, "that you should've been a detective."

Somehow, Sherlock finds that idea extremely hilarious as he bursts out laughing, "Detective?! You think I'd be allowed that?"

"You don't have to be allowed. It's your choice, not Mycroft's or Victor's."

John has little clue that free will is something that does not exist in any Omega's, and therefore Sherlock's, dictionary. Sherlock looks away, "I got mailed to the wrong address, didn't I?"

"Uh huh. You're not one of them. There's been a mistake."

Changing the subject completely, Sherlock points at the night sky, his eyes twinkling with fascination, "So beautiful, isn't it?"

John looks up. He wonders whether Sherlock's fascination with the outer space stemmed from his great need to escape the suffocating chains of his impending marriage, or maybe just the beauty of it all. Sherlock isn't sentimental, he reminds himself. He recognises some stars twinkling at him, some he doesn't.

"That one," he points to the brightest one, "is Sirius, Dog Star. Brightest star from Earth."

Sherlock nods. He finds the information pointless, but he still listens, seeing as he could listen to John's voice because of that.

"And those three stars, following up from Sirius, form the belt of Orion, The Hunter."

"I've heard of the myth."

"Taught you that in finishing school, huh?"

Sherlock guffaws, "Right. How do you know so much about stars?"

John grimaces as he finds himself recalling the memory. It was a rainy night. Mary had gone to buy some bread off whatever they had managed for the day. The bakery boys had packed the bread in a page out of an astronomy textbook. They had spent the night memorising some of the stars. John and Mary had even vowed that they would spot some once they got some clear skies.

It was also the night on which she got pneumonia and died two days later.

And now, years later, he finds himself pointing out those stars to Sherlock, his second love. He can almost see Mary's sweet face smiling at him from the Heavens above. She wouldn't want him living in the past now that he had Sherlock.

"Look," John suddenly points at the sky, "It's a shooting star! My da used to say that whenever you saw one, it was a soul going to heaven."

He can almost feel Sherlock rolling his eyes, "It's only a meteoroid, John," he states matter-of-factly, "Despite my efforts to the contrary, I do have some elementary knowledge of astronomy."

"Sherlock, it'll go away!" he urges him, "Quickly, wish for something!"

He looks up. To his dismay, it's gone. His only hope for freedom, however bleak, is gone.

"What did you wish for?" he asks John, still looking up at the night sky.

"Nothing much," he lies, "Just... keep the ship and all the people safe and happy. What would you have wished for?"

Sherlock turns to look at him, and John finds that they are suddenly very close together. It would be so easy to move another couple of inches, to press his lips against him. Sherlock seems to be thinking the same thing. His eyes momentarily fly to John's lips and then down at their feet.

After a beat, Sherlock pulls back.

"Something I can never have," he gives him a tight-lipped smile, "Goodnight, John. And thank you for the evening."

He leaves the rail and hurries through the First Class Entrance. It's only logical, he tells himself.

John is dismayed beyond belief, "Sherlock!" he calls after him, wondering what was it that he did wrong.

But the door bangs shut, and he is gone. Back to his empty world full of showy opulence. Back to be taken to America in chains.

* * *

**E/N:** When Cameron made the movie, he stated that 'the loss of Titanic could not be expressed better without a love story' or something similar. I'm working the other way round. Sherlock and John's love story could not be better expressed without the feeling that loss and death brings about.

Sorry, I'll just shut up now.

Thank you all for bearing with this little Sherlockian girl over here. I'm sure that you hate me for constantly editing my previous chapters. Especially changing Colonel Wellington to Colonel Moran. New readers, skip this part please! Love you all soooo much! xxx


	7. In Throes

**Summary: **Mycroft confronts John and Sherlock and Victor shows his true colours.

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry for the lame title, I couldn't find anything else :D

A little different from the movie. And I think you'll know what and why after reading the chapter.

* * *

John stares after the tall figure retreating back to the all-consuming vortex from which he had managed to pull him out that evening.

Why did Sherlock not understand, in spite of being so brilliant? Why did he not understand that he was being pulled down, put down by the manacles of marriage and bonding? It was simple enough, he just had to say no. What was the worst that could happen if he said no to them? Mycroft did not seem like a complete jerk. He stood up for his brother.

Jerk. John recalls the way Mycroft had looked upon him during the evening. They were such small people, thinking that they were giants on the earth, when they were not even dust in God's eye, simply living inside this tiny little champagne bubble... and someday the bubble would burst and they'd pass into nothingness. And Sherlock, oh dear Lord. John shuddered to think about what would happen to him when that bubble burst.

Why could he not see?

He looks down at his hand, one end of his lip twitching in dejection. He traces his finger over the skin where it last made contact with Sherlock. He understands slowly that it is nothing that he has done wrong. Sherlock had enjoyed the evening thoroughly. He had played, laughed, danced, tricked others. He did new things, things he had never done. He had said that it was fun.

John wears the jacket back as the cold attacks him again. He hadn't needed it until now. He starts walking back to his own modest cubicle.

He looks down at his suit. It wasn't ruined much, except the stink of ale and sweat. He'd have to wash it and return it to Molly Brown the next day. He could request the stewards for some iron and starch perhaps.

But more importantly, he would have to find Sherlock and make him see...

John stops when he sees a tall brunette woman in a stunning black and red silk dinner dress watching him. Curious, he approaches her and stiffens when she smiles pleasantly at him. He remembers having seen her somewhere.

"Hello, Mr. Watson," her voice is smooth and rich.

John casts an eye over her. She is beautiful, her low-cut dress showing off her neck and shoulders, her arms sheathed in white gloves that come well above the elbow. She looks like royalty with jewels embedded in her hair. He cannot recall where he has seen her, but that does not stop him from saying hello to her as well.

"Hello, there."

Might be anyone, he muses, could have been someone from the dinner party. He tries his hand at deducing something about her, just like Sherlock had taught him.

She takes his arm and they start walking, or rather she leads him to where _she_ wants him to go.

"So, what's you name then?"

"Uh... Anthea," she responds, still smiling and unnerving him.

"Right, is that even your real name?" He gets this intuition somehow.

"No."

John turns to look at her again and withdraws his arm back, "Wait, I know you! You were sitting there at the table in the dinner party with us, near... Mycroft."

"Hmm... you've got quite an eye, Mr. Watson. Shall we walk?"

John does not answer and simply walks away. He does not see two stewards passing him. He does not see Andrea giving both of them a fiver and a cloth which she removes from her purse. Suddenly, John feels a large white cloth on his face smothering him. The smell of chloroform breaks out somewhere and he passes into oblivion.

* * *

A slight tapping of a heavy stick awakens John. He peers through his half-closed eyelids. It's not a stick, but an umbrella.

"How're you feeling, Mr. Watson?" comes an icy voice from somewhere near his ear. Even through his dulled senses, John knows that it is Mycroft. He sits up rather clumsily. Mycroft's huge figure looms over him.

"Like throwing a punch to your gut."

"No need for language, Mr. Watson," Mycroft settles down in a wooden chair in front of him. John looks around him. He has never been in this part of the ship before. An Edwardian gymnasium. There are machines he recognizes from certain commercials, and some he doesn't.

To his surprise, his hands and feet are quite free. Mycroft smiles imperturbably at his confusion. John's gaze rests on Andrea standing next to him, watching the two men.

"Why not? You drugged me! I would have gone with you if you wanted a chat."

"I want more than only a chat. I see that my brother has spent the day rather... _meaningfully_ with you, in his opinion at least."

John gives a strained laugh, "Oh, so she works for you. Or was it that undertaker of a manservant?"

"Mr. Watson," he continues in the same icy voice, ignoring his comments and fixing him with a reproaching chin down stare, "You do know that Sherlock is engaged to Mr. Trevor."

John nods, seeing where the conversation was going to lead.

"And you, sir, are forcing yourself upon-"

"I'm not forcing myself upon him!" he bellows.

"I don't think that _this_ can be called anything else," Mycroft reaches for something inside the pocket of his suit-jacket. A cheque-book and a pen, "I thought I might need this. Any figure you mention, Mr. Watson. I'll be happy to pay you a regular amount on the condition that you stay away from my brother."

"I don't need your money," says he decisively. He had half-a-mind to persuade Mycroft to let Sherlock do whatever he wanted to do in life, but now it is clear to him that it is not going to make him see any sense.

Mycroft looks slightly surprised, "You're very loyal, Mr. Watson. Very quickly. Not everyone can thwart off her," he indicates to Andrea, "and this at the same time," he indicates to his cheque-book.

"Well, not everyone you've met is a complete and immoral bastard!"

"My brother is nothing but a child," Mycroft rises from his chair and looks out of a window. There's no one there, and this sends a bout of worry through John. His face is almost painful to look at, "You must be knowing that as much as I do, having spent the evening with him. He is immature and foolish," John's blood boils when he hears that brilliant man being described as 'foolish', "He has his own sense of right and wrong. And unfortunately, having never been exposed to the class of people you belong to... he doesn't know how to conduct himself-"

"If he's a child," John manages a sharp intake of breath, "Then why're you getting him married? He should get to do what-"

John stops when he sees the terrible look on Mycroft's face. Cold fury emanates from him as he half-turns towards the man lying between him and the supposedly better life he has decided for Sherlock. He smiles, a collection of wrinkles and red eyes. He knows he has spoken too much, but it's the only way.

"I'll say no more, Mr. Watson. You're an intelligent man and you should know that if you even glance at my brother, I shall have your eyes for that."

John has nothing to say to that. Except for one last thing, but he is interrupted before he could say any further.

"Good, now that we have it settled, I'd like a cup of tea. Goodnight, Mr. Watson. And may I never see you around my brother anymore."

With that, Andrea took his arm and they were both out of sight, leaving John even more resolute.

* * *

Saturday, April 13th, 1912 8:27 am

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson tries to wake up the young man covered in sweat, "Sherlock dear, wake up!"

He wakes up with a start, giving her a mini-heart attack. She has been trying to wake him up for half-an-hour at least, and when he wakes up all of a sudden, she is bound to get scared. He covers his bare chest by his duvet as Mrs. Hudson looks away. There is a slight change in the environment, a certain something that he cannot place his finger upon, but Mrs. Hudson wasn't saying anything about it. She was pretty chatty about such things otherwise. It's odd but fortunately, it fades away. He pulls his shirt and his dressing gown over his shoulders as she goes on about how wonderful the ship was. She could be a headache sometimes.

"Mrs. Hudson, could you just... leave?"

She looks a little puzzled. Sherlock had never asked her to just leave. But she acquiesces anyway.

"Yes dear."

He thanks every power in the world which stopped him from consuming staggering amounts of ale like the others in the Third Class party. He remembers the party and the dance with a small smile touching the edge of his lips. He remembers Greg defeating Olaus in arm-wrestling and Molly hugging him with surprising strength. He remembers the feeling of John's strong arms around him as they danced. Lastly, he remembers talking about being a detective and stargazing with John.

His gaze falls on the violin lying on the armchair. He walks up to it and settles down on the chair, tuning the instrument to perfection, staring at the mirror and hating himself for his cowardly actions the previous night. He is scared, scared of what John and he could have, scared of what Mycroft and, more worryingly, Victor would do, and yet he does not want to admit it to himself. He remembers John's confused face from the previous night and loathes himself for having left him...

"Sherlock!" comes Mrs. Hudson's voice, half-worried, "Your fiancée expects you for breakfast."

Sherlock does not reply. He knows what was coming. Victor had high hopes for yesterday night etcetera-

"Sherlock!" she grabs his shoulder, "Grab some proper clothes and go."

He turns to looks at her. She looks worried, there are dark circles under her eyes, something that weren't there some moments ago. He nods and gets up, washing his face and unwillingly letting Mrs Hudson comb his hair into something more suitable.

It's a bright clear day, sunlight splashing across the promenade as Sherlock settles down in the divan in front of Victor. The latter sips his coffee, and his eyes go wide as Sherlock approaches.

Mrs. Hudson arrives, pouring some coffee for Sherlock. When he raises his head, Victor is almost gawking at him. He clears his throat and they continue their breakfast in silence, that is, until Victor decides that he has had enough. He waits till Mrs. Hudson leaves and then-

"I had hoped," Sherlock's head shoots up at that, "you would come to me last night."

Sherlock does not risk an involuntary exasperated sigh at that, "I was tired."

"Of course," he smiles, "I should have seen that coming. Except I could discern late night brooding and pacing from your room, dear. Way to go when you're... _tired_."

Sherlock straightens up, "What are you trying to imply?"

"The master-at-arms came looking for a certain Mr. Holmes this morning. He mentioned something about a statement and a doctor's declaration, and specifically about a certain Dr. Watson. Now, Mycroft was with me the whole time and I cannot imagine any other Mr. Holmes travelling on the ship. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you sweetpea?"

Sherlock looks him in the eye almost unnervingly, a skill that the elder Holmes had passed on to both the brothers. But Victor isn't affected in the slightest. He smiles away inscrutably, "You shall remain confined to your quarters today, Sherlock-"

"What?!"

"I trust you know what has happened. You cannot go out in this state. You shall remain confined to your quarters, seeing as it would provide a double purpose-"

"I'm not some foreman in your mills than you can command!" he snaps. Victor is not very surprised to hear the tone of his voice, "I am your fiancée-"

"My fiancée?" he finds the idea almost comical as he crosses his legs and sips his coffee, "Sometimes I wonder. But I'm not here to recount your pleasant evening with Watson," he almost spits the name. His voice is soft and tender for someone hearing it for the first time, but underneath, only Sherlock knows that he is trembling with fury, "I'm here to tell you what you are going to do. You'll stay here, in your room. I'll have Mr. Gregson posted outside-"

"I am absolutely not going to do that!" Sherlock explodes, sweeping the breakfast china off the table with a crash. He moves to Victor in one shocking moment, glowering over him and gripping the sides of his chair, so that Victor is trapped between his arms. Fury has never been so prominent in his veins. He has never had an angry outburst before. But it still has no effect on Victor. He does not even back away. He sits there vacantly, a master of emotional paralysis, watching him with an amused smile on his face which only widens as moments pass by.

Sherlock turns to see Mrs. Hudson, frozen, partway through the door, bringing the orange juice. Victor follows his glance and straightens up in his chair, "Oh dear, look what you've done," he says with false sympathy, "Your dear housekeeper's so old. Don't increase her workload."

With that, he stalks past her, entering the stateroom with a smug wink on his face, "Be careful over the glass, sweetpea. Don't want to cut yourself in a frenzy."

Sherlock collapses into the divan, his anger transmuting into something resembling abject helplessness. This was the worst way anyone could have humiliated him. He grits his teeth upon seeing Gregson inspecting him like a watchdog. Mrs. Hudson rushes to comfort him as well as gather the broken pieces of china out of the way.

"Oh Sherlock! What have you done?!" She's almost horrified at his daring.

* * *

Next visit is by Mycroft who is much less composed than Victor was.

"Excuse us, Mrs. Hudson," but she's gone even before Mycroft could even finish his words. Sherlock is sitting on a settee facing the fireplace and away from the door, playing pizzicato notes on the violin, recalling in his mind the gypsy tune he had played the last night.

"I'll repeat what Victor has said. You are to stay here today-"

"Oh, will I?" says he, "It's only a matter of time. I'll find my way out of this suite, you know it Mycroft. I've done it dozens of times. You're only asking me to have _fun_."

"What is wrong with you?" he wheels him towards him, "There are class divides for a reason, Sherlock. And yet I find you being gravitated to the smell of the lower rungs, the noise, the people!"

Sherlock dumps the violin on his chair and rises to his full height. He comes close to Mycroft, their noses almost touching. The latter does not back away, but simply looks down to check the gleam of his over-shined shoes.

"You're a hypocrite."

Mycroft backs away, "Am I?"

"Do you really think that I don't know what passes between you and Andrea?!"

Mycroft's grip on his umbrella tightens at that. Sherlock has hit a nerve, "At least I don't go slipping off deck rungs with her."

"How could you? You won't fit there at all-!"

"You are not to see that man again, do you understand me Sherlock? I forbid it! Because I'll not be made out a fool!"

"Oh, save that for the poor little unhappy wretch who marries you!" he retreats back to his chair and returns to his violin. Mycroft looms above him, looking down at him like a terrible storm.

"Sherlock, this is not a game! Our situation is precarious. You know the money's gone!"

"Of course I know it's gone. You remind me every day!"

Mycroft sucks in his breath, and massages his forehead. Sherlock is extremely difficult to talk to, "I don't understand you. It is a fine match with Victor. He is the heir to most of the Alleghany mines, and dashing too. It will insure our survival."

"Survival?" Sherlock sneers, "Isn't that what we've been doing till now?"

With blazing speed, he catches hold of Mycroft's wrist before the latter can pull it away. He undoes the shirt cuff and pulls it away to reveal the hidden marks of those cigar impressions, supposedly branding him as a man of weak character for having put his Omega brother's best interests above everything else.

"You used to stand up for me, Mycroft. This is what you were. And yet, I find you using improper dosage of chloroform on an absolute gentleman. Was it right after I left? Was it even the full minute?"

Mycroft clenched his jaw. Words came to him but his body refused to cooperate properly, "I have always done what is best for you Sherlock," he looks a little hurt, "Father and I. We have done what's best. Always."

"Whatever is best? Really?" His eyes are hard and bloodshot, his words are heavy with sarcasm as he sneers at his Alpha brother, "Do not forget, Mycroft," he tries to look imposing but underneath, Mycroft can see the wound and the naked fear in his eyes, "If you marry me to this man, you are condemning me to my death."

Mycroft's eyes soften for a minute at his threat, but then his expression turns granite again, "And don't forget for one second that if you leave this room, then you condemn Mr. Watson to his death."

With a smirk, he turns around and leaves the room, locking it behind him. Sherlock is paralysed by shock for a few seconds. He plops back down on the sofa, half-wishing for John to not have saved him that night.

* * *

It's afternoon when he hears the key turn into the lock. Victor slips in, smiling from one end to the other end of his face. It's not a fake one, he observes as Victor comes to him and takes his hand, sending an oddly tingling sensation down his nerves, "Wear something decent and come with me."

Sherlock frowns, "Where?" In reply, Victor bends down to his ear and whispers, his breath warm and tingling, "Mycroft is stuck in a dreadfully tiresome lunch with the Countess and Mr. Ismay. I am ill, to his knowledge, although I suspect that he does not believe me-"

"Where?" Sherlock cannot help but smile upon hearing his brother's pitiful condition.

"It's a surprise," he leans forward and kisses him squarely on his lips. Sherlock wants to kiss him back, to drown himself in the strange sort of excitement he was experiencing. With indomitable force of will, he resists, "Now, don't be late." And before Sherlock can ask anything at all, he leaves the room. Curiosity overtakes his sulking and he dons a simple grey two piece suit. When he marches out of his room, Victor is standing there holding his long black coat and a blue silk scarf. Sherlock's suspicions are instantly aroused, but then he remembers that he is here without Mycroft's apparent knowledge. Victor wouldn't want Andrea tagging along. He wordlessly wraps the scarf around his neck. Victor takes his hand rather tenderly than he usually does. They exit their stateroom as Victor pulls out a blindfold. Sherlock's eyes narrow at that.

"Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"I told you," says he fondly, "It's secret."

"Are you going to throw me overboard? Because that'll be incriminating for you. I'm sure that even people with pinhead sized brains will notice that you led a blindfolded man across the ship."

Victor breaks into laughter, "I rather like your sense of humour, Sherlock. If I had to throw you overboard, I'd have done it already."

Sherlock suppresses a wince at that, and lets Victor put a blindfold on his eyes anyway, "Okay."

He walks him through the B-deck foyer, through to Mycroft's suite and round and round and they end up inside their own suite at last.

"Where do you think we are, darling?"

Sherlock pretends to be thinking too hard. He screws up his face, until the irritation comes through, "I should imagine our own stateroom. What is-?"

Victor removes the blindfold as soon as he hears Sherlock starting to complain. As for the latter, he shuts up, processing the changes that had been done to the sitting room. There's a dining table instead of the circular low table. It was fully laid with-

"Well, you do know how to spoil a surprise," Victor leans against Sherlock's back, pressing a soft kiss to his neck and inhaling his scent, causing a jolt of pleasure downwards, "I was going to wait until dinner but the... thought of you being locked inside the whole time didn't quite sit well with me, so here we are. We're having lunch here."

Sherlock frowns, not able to comprehend the situation. He finds the idea rather strange that he's being rewarded for spending the evening with steerage folks. Something was wrong, but Victor seemed so earnest that Sherlock decided to play along.

"I'm not hungry."

"Neither am I. Do you like it?"

It was a candlelight lunch, to be precise. All the windows were closed, giving them the impression of night-time.

"It's... overwhelming."

"Come on, then," he takes his hand in his gently, like Sherlock was as brittle as glass, and guides him over to a chair, drawing it out for his convenience. Sherlock goes to the other chair and promptly sits on it, leaving Victor to remove his suit jacket and smile to himself.

"You'll never go down without a fight, will you?" He takes a seat and waits for a valet to serve them the appetizer, minced beef and lamb with marinated beet, whose name Sherlock had deleted a long time ago.

The lunch passes mostly in silence, with both of them casting surreptitious glances at one another. Sherlock's stomach churns whenever he looks into Victor's eyes. He could tell that Victor was secretly pleased about something, very pleased. He remains buried in his thoughts, while replying to Victor's remarks dubiously. It was only after the valet has cleared the cutlery that Victor rises and pours them some red wine. He leads him out to the promenade, breaking the illusion of night as the sunlight spills upon them. Victor wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, inhaling and relishing the Omega's intoxicating scent.

"I didn't know that you were the shy type," says he, pressing gentle kisses on the side of his neck, "Anyway... I-forgive you, for to-day," he pants out, "I suppose - it shouldn't have been very... un - unexpected, given the circumstances," he almost sinks his teeth into his flesh.

Sherlock shivers in pleasure as he slaps himself mentally. It was just the Alpha scent, he tells himself, nothing much. But Victor turns him around, and this time his kiss isn't gentle like always. This time it's close to bruising. Sherlock finds himself wrapping his arms around the Alpha's neck, kissing him back with the same passion. They don't break the contact as they reach Victor's room. Sherlock tries his best to pull away, telling his mind fervently that it is nothing but hormones but body isn't ready to respond to him. At this moment of time, his body finds itself in the presence of an aroused Alpha, and it has its way.

Victor pushes him on the bed, climbing atop him and grinding their bodies together as Sherlock's mind screams to stop, to push him away. Instead he finds himself pulling at his collar like dear life as Victor continues to undress him. And there it is, that certain something, again. His mind braces itself for a panic attack as he realises what it was. He wants to tear himself apart for being so thick as to not see it before.

He tries to scream John's name and Mycroft's name, but only a soft moan emerges from his lips.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Victor wheezes as he attempts to bite into his smooth skin, "I'm going to make you mine right here!"

* * *

**E/N:** Don't ask me where Mycroft got the chloroform from. It should suffice to say that Sherlock performs ghastly chemical experiments.

What was wrong with Sherlock and why was Victor so pleased about it? Any guesses?


	8. Rescue

**Summary:**Victor wants to take Sherlock in their stateroom. Being in Heat, he cannot but comply. Rescue is there, obviously, and not too late. Help always comes from someone entirely unexpected.

* * *

**A/N**: Give yourself a cookie if you've got it right. :) And if you haven't, give yourself two cookies. My description of Sherlock being in Heat wasn't exactly top-notch!

At first, I had no idea how to make the story turn around like a real incident and not a fairy tale like John walking through the walls to save Sherlock from Victor, but then as I started writing, I got a different idea.

Typos have got to be there. Don't hesitate to point them out! x

* * *

About an hour and a half ago:

The Countess of Rothes is a popular figure in the London society, known for her philanthropic ventures, her blonde beauty, bright personality, graceful dancing and the diligence with which she helps organize lavish entertainments patronized by English royalty and members of the nobility. Mycroft and his Father were always very fond of her and the Earl himself as well. But his mind couldn't be at ease even in the presence of her cheerful chatter, even in the sunny surroundings of the Palm Court Restaurant.

He ponders over his row with Sherlock. He wonders if he has done the right thing. He still wants to believe that Sherlock had not meant the words he said, but the look in his brother's eyes does not fail to haunt him. He gives her a strained smile as she talks about her Red Cross ventures and her charitable work with the Duchess of Devonshire. She does not fail to perceive his anxiety.

"Mycroft," her voice is low and a little worried, "Is there something wrong?"

He is slightly stricken when he realises that his emotion is there on his face for public display. He composes himself in an instant, "Nothing, my dear Noëlle, just the usual."

"I didn't see Sherlock today. Is he ill?"

"You could say that."

Noëlle seems to understand the matter, but then she becomes more worried, "Where's Victor then?"

"Out. For some air, perhaps." Mycroft knows where Victor is, and what he was probably doing. There was no other option left. It's scandalous to leave an Unbonded Omega with any Alpha other than a family Alpha, more so in one room, but Sherlock wouldn't listen. They were getting married anyway, and Sherlock would have to submit. The earlier, the better. Bonding brought about the obedience that befits an Omega, or it is said to. Mycroft is never really sure about anything when it comes to his brother.

"Does he know?"

Mycroft shakes his head in denial.

_You used to stand up for me, Mycroft. This is what you were..._

He feels like a failed man, a failed family Alpha and above everything else, a failed brother. Sherlock's parting words haunt him. Although he knows that his brother is intelligent enough to see more sense than simply end his life, he also remembers that this was Sherlock. His stubbornness and impatience naturally outweigh his discretion.

He sometimes wishes his father hadn't fixed Sherlock's marriage at all.

He sometimes wishes, however impractical it was, for Sherlock to have remained the four year old who scoffed at the story of 'The Princess and the Frog', declaring the Princess as stupid for having even thought of kissing a frog, and the eight year old who hated wearing trousers.

The four year Sherlock would not recognise the seventeen year old at all, maybe even laugh at at him for choosing the frog over the Prince. But that was dealt with. John Watson was not a stupid man. He would take the threat seriously. He would never come after him again.

Frankly, he had never expected that this was how Sherlock felt about Victor, that he would die than marry him. But, there was no way out. They won't last six months without the money.

He gets distracted from his thoughts as he sees Andrea coming towards him. He rises and goes to her.

"No sign of Mr. Trevor on the ship anywhere _else_, sir." She confirms his suspicions. Mycroft nods and resumes his seat, while Noëlle turns to seek Andrea's more pleasant company.

_What have I done?_

* * *

Walking along the B-Deck, John has the suit in his hand. Returning it to Molly Brown is only an excuse to go see Sherlock and get this feeling out of him. He doesn't care if Mycroft or Victor see him. The only thing which worries him is how he was going to get to the B Deck staterooms without being sent back. Fortunately, Greg had a black coat and a bowler hat arranged for him. He could pass for a gentleman, only till the promenade. Almost, he reminds himself, could pass for a gentleman.

Then he remembers that it's almost lunch time. It had taken him an awful lot of time to get the suit properly cleaned and dried.

But when he reaches the B Deck promenade, he sees Mycroft seated with Molly, the Countess, the Astors and Mr. Ismay. He wonders where Victor is, and more importantly, where Sherlock is. He mentions to a steward, who does a double take on him. He knows that he won't be allowed inside. He sees it in the steward's eyes.

"Listen, can you call that lady over there?" he points to Molly, "I need to return her these." He shows him the formalwear. The steward does not seem to believe him, but the suit in his hands does look very fine. He goes in, and John watches him whisper into Molly Brown's ears. For a second, he's almost worried that she has already forgotten him, but when she glances to see Mycroft lost in his thoughts and smiles benevolently at John, he sighs in relief. She walks outside, giving him a motherly pat on the shoulder.

"How did it go with Sherlock, Watson?" He is surprised to see that she remembers his name.

He shrugs his shoulders, faking nonchalance, but nothing misses her eye, "Bailed on you, did he? Come on," she takes his arm, "I didn't give you that suit just to gawk at him all night."

"I... didn't," John tries to hide the blush threatening to form on his face, at which, Molly only responded with, "Oh, shut up! I saw the way you were looking at him despite my lovely chatter yesterday. You couldn't take your eyes off him."

John knows that he's busted. He simply smiles in acquiescence.

"I know what you're thinking. Sorry to tell you, but Sherlock is ill."

"Ill?" John wonders if the ale was responsible in any way.

"Yup. Hasn't been out the whole day."

She enters her stateroom, which is one of the first ones, and he hands her the suit, standing outside the room, "Listen, anyway, thanks for yesterday evening. I don't know what would've happened if I-" he looks down at his clothes. Sherlock was right, they were crumpled from sleeping in them.

"Hey, don't mention it! You've done a better job than any of those damn drycleaners!" For emphasis, she pulls out another suit, making John smile.

"Alright, then, Mrs. Brown. Thank you. It's been an honour."

"Just say that you want to accompany me back to the restaurant. Bleedin' Alphas! I'm better here, I've had enough ship and rich talk without Jim on my side."

John's smile widens and he excuses himself out of the suite and back to his own cabin. It would be best not to disturb Sherlock while he recovered.

* * *

"So beautiful," Victor whispers, the pheromones and the lust still unable to camouflage that deceptively calm voice of his, "You want me, don't you?" He watches the Omega writhing underneath, trying to extract himself from his grip, but to no avail. It's a half-hearted process. His body is fighting against his wishes. He has no control over himself.

"You want me inside you."

A whimper is all he gets as a response.

Sherlock's mind is unable to stay aloof to the lust building up inside him. He has never felt the emotion, and now, it's terrifyingly dark and powerful. He tries to summon the last shreds of rational thinking and tries to force himself into doing what he wanted to do: throw Victor off him and break off the engagement, while claiming that he had attempted to rape him. Oh, this gave him the perfect window of opportunity, Sherlock would have marveled at his good luck, but on second thoughts, he would have to get rid of him first. And that was proving to be very difficult.

He hadn't read the clues when it mattered. The stimulating dreams created by the remnants of John's Alpha scent on him, that certain something that only Victor and Mycroft, being Alphas, could detect. Why Mrs. Hudson couldn't perceive anything like that. Why he was asked to stay inside and why he was asked to wrap that scarf around his neck. Why he had an angry outburst, and why Victor was trying so hard to please him. It would serve a double purpose, as he had declared. True indeed.

He should have known, he should have foreseen his Estrus cycle. It had always been irregular as a result of Sherlock dabbling in whatever chemicals he managed to smuggle into the house with the help of his ever-faithful Mrs. Hudson. The start of the Estrus had been there, plain as day in front of him. He was too slow, too self-absorbed in the previous night's events to have noticed it.

John.

He feels his cognitive processes diminishing rapidly as Victor's hands travel all over him, tearing his shirt off and laying his chest bare. His hands move southward and Sherlock can't help but lean into his touch, into the pleasure that was pooling there. Victor mashes their lips together, making him feel weirdly nauseous. How he wishes to throw up, just to get this tyrant off him, just to punish him for being so jealous about a drifter, so much jealous that he jumped at the first opportunity which presented itself.

Victor attacks his neck again, drowning himself in the delicious aroma, while his fingers caress his inner thigh. It takes Sherlock a mountain of effort just to remove his fingers from Victor's hair and to stop his hand from touching him.

"No..." is all he can mutter, while trying to shove Victor off and kissing him at the same time. John's memory serves to make his resolute a little stronger. Victor can sense his inhibitions, and somehow that serves to turn him on more than ever.

"Oh Sherlock, must you always be so trying?"

* * *

Mrs. Brown watches till he's out of sight, smiling to herself. She knows that John does not realise how smitten Sherlock was during the dinner party. Regardless of whether he had left John, she had never seen him so excited and so participating during the dinner time. Most of the time, Sherlock stayed still like a figurine. He only talked to Mr. Andrews, asking him about the construction details and the why and how about it, and made occasional witty remarks when prompted, mostly at Mycroft's expense.

No matter however ill he was, she was certainly going to tell the young man that John had come looking for him. Although she knew that Sherlock pretended to be aloof and cold, she could not contain herself just to imagine the aloofness trying and failing to mask the true happiness behind his eyes. She knows that Sherlock isn't exactly in high spirits about his engagement to Victor, and it isn't her place to intervene but... well, she just couldn't help this. It would be just so refreshing to see another young couple in love, instead of the contract that Sherlock was bound in.

She knows that of all people, Sherlock likes her the best. Well, if 'like' were truly a relative term and if you were not to count Mr. Andrews. He would never dismiss her the way he usually dismissed others.

So she dons a shawl over herself and walks to B-52 only to be greeted by the cold eyes and the bland face of Victor's valet, Mr. Gregson. She frowns when he stares at her like an alien, instead of allowing her inside.

"I wanna see Sherlock," says she. She does not know what is happening inside, for she thinks that Sherlock is alone in the suite.

"Mr. Holmes is very ill."

"Yeah I know that, . Step aside." When he does not comply, she frowns, quite irritated, "What the hell's wrong with you? I'm asking you to open the door!"

"He's very ill."

"Well, I'll call a doctor. And what's he doing here inside instead of being in the Hospital room?"

"No one is allowed inside, ma'am. Mr. Trevor's orders."

"What the hell? He's only sick, not a big-!"

And then it hits her, Sherlock locked for the whole day inside the room, his "illness", Victor's unusually good mood, his sudden absence, man posted _outside_ their suite.

"Open this door, man!" She cries out, "Or I'll call all the stewards and make a scene over here!"

She looks quite intimidating, but it has no effect on Gregson. Some people passing by look over to see the source of the commotion.

"I'm going to tell you one more time, you pigheaded bastard! Open the goddamned door! Where's your sense of morality?" Gregson looks confused to see so many pairs of eyes darting in his direction, "There's an Unbonded Omega there, for God's sake!"

At the mention of this, several people let out an audible gasp, but they do nothing to help her. At last, a steward pushes through, "What's the matter, ma'am?"

"He won't open the door! My son is in there!"

"Ma'am, please! Sir, please open the door for her." But Gregson is adamant.

"Listen, if you don't open the door, I'll have the master-at-arms here," she turns to the steward, "Fetch the master-at-arms, sonny!"

The steward tries to go away, but Gregson holds him in place, showing all of them his revolver. Most scurry off, clearly frightened.

"What is the problem?" says one of the last women left, "Why're you arguing with the lady? She wants to see her son, open the door."

"I'm not afraid of guns," says Molly, "I grew up in America, damn it! Come on, sister. Help me a little here."

"No need to call the master-at-arms!" says he, "I was a cop myself!"

"Then you better start acting like one. I'll have Mycroft down here, I swear, now hand over the keys!"

Gregson looks a little spooked at Mycroft's name. It is clear that his formidable demeanour has not failed to make an impression on this tough ex-Pinkerton cop. He hands them the key most reluctantly, "You're not allowed inside," comes Gregson's voice from behind her, as they both burst in, but the other woman only glares him into silence. Molly Brown comes to a halt when she hears it.

"Oh Sherlock, must you always be so trying?"

She bursts into Victor's room to see both of them half-clothed on the bed, with Victor on top and Sherlock thrashing underneath him. He turns around at the intruder and is shocked to see her. He grabs his shirt, just as Molly reaches to push him away from Sherlock.

"You perverted bastard!" she cries out, draping her shawl across Sherlock's shoulders and cradling his head even though he does not need it, "Wait till I get to Mycroft!"

Although thrashing earlier, the loss of contact from the Alpha makes Sherlock want to push Molly Brown away and go back to Victor and cling to him. He suppresses his craving only by holding on to Molly, his anchor at the moment.

Victor only looks at her, still in a daze owing to the pheromones saturating the room. She glares at him as Sherlock slowly starts to recover from the yearning that hormones have created within him.

"Get outta here!" She growls at him, while attempting to comfort the Omega.

"Mrs. Brown," he is fully clothed now and he comes over to them, trying to be dominating but not even an fraction of his natural demeanour, "Need I remind you that this is _my_ suite and-!"

"And he is not married to you yet!" The adverb 'unwillingly' hangs in mid-air, "Just because he's in Heat, it doesn't mean that you can take advantage of him. God knows what would've happened if I hadn't come here!"

And before Victor can anticipate her next move, she takes Sherlock and leads him away from him into the sitting room, taking advantage of Victor's dimmed reflexes. The woman outside looks shocked as Molly grabs his shirt and his jacket, helping him into it. She sprays some perfume onto him so that no one could detect the scent of the pheromones. Being a woman, they did not affect her. But the atmosphere, she had to admit, was intolerably thick. She wondered what it would do to Alphas, if she being a woman, was able to detect them.

"It's alright," she whispers, patting his back, when she sees him trying to regain his composure as quickly as possible, "Relax. I've got you. We'll go to my room and stay there till Mycroft arrives."

Sherlock takes her hand in his and shifts it away from himself politely. He has never felt so helpless in his life, so trapped. His own body succumbed to the carnal pleasures that Victor... oh Lord, what would have happened if Molly Brown hadn't decided to drop by?

He wants to get away from this room for the moment. The pheromones, although subduing, were still affecting him. Victor comes into the sitting room, his hair ruffled and his waistcoat buttoned in all the wrong places. He isn't affected in the slightest by the glowering looks Molly Brown bestows upon him. He looks defiant, and if Sherlock happened to look into them, he would see order written in them, an order he, being an Omega, must follow without question.

Sherlock looks around at the suite or wherever Victor does not happen to be there, and then at Molly, "Mrs. Brown," he's surprised that words come to him after all, in spite of this frightening and shocking incident, "If it's not too much trouble, may I-?"

But he never finishes as Mycroft hurries into the stateroom. He takes in one whiff of the room, processing instantly what had happened, or rather what was going to happen. He looks, for one second, immensely relieved, but then his expression becomes bland as he sees Molly Brown and realises that this is a result of her intervention. Regret is the final emotion that manages to cross his face as his eyes settle upon Sherlock.

"My suite. Now."

Sherlock does not want to go to Mycroft and neither to Molly's. He wants to be left alone, something that people didn't seem to understand and appreciate. He turns the situation in his mind and manages to look up at his brother's eyes. He stands up to his full height, not willing to look helpless and victimized.

"Sherlock, are you even listen-"

He puts up a hand, and does a take at Victor: defiant, unrepentant, mildly furious at his plans gone awry.

"There you are, Mycroft," says Molly, "I-"

"You knew."

It was the only logical explanation. Sherlock had seen Mycroft come out of worse situations, like a cork floating back to the surface. And it was highly unlikely that Andrea had not seen Victor entering the stateroom. Mycroft had allowed for this to happen.

Molly whips around at Sherlock's words, noting the slight anger, the disbelief underlying his tone. Although she knows that this was not her place anymore, she doesn't want to leave the Omega's side.

"I never-"

"You knew." Same tone, cold, hard, disbelieving, angry, betrayed.

Sherlock couldn't have expected anything more from Victor. To him, life was a profit and loss statement, nothing else. Every single of his actions were devoted to the end goals he set for himself. That was what Sherlock was to him, an end goal, a prize to be locked inside his glass cabinets. If he read him correctly, he would come and apologize to him the next moment. A more apt description would be apologizing without a trace of sincerity.

But Mycroft knew. Or at least he had figured out Victor's plans for the afternoon. Mycroft does not meet his brother's gaze. He looks down at his attire again, his fingers reaching out to pick the imaginary lint. Molly sees this too. All his disgust towards Victor's actions is nothing compared to the bitter hatred he feels towards his calm, collected brother.

"Mrs. Brown," Mycroft straightens up, "I trust I can take it from here."

Not even a thank you. Only an order.

Sherlock gives her a terse nod at which she, although slightly unconvinced, excuses herself. He walks out of the room, toward Mycroft's suite, only to be stopped by his brother's voice.

"Sherlock," he swallows, "I did not want this."

"Who cares what you want?! You could have stopped him, and you didn't."

"Victor, if you could please-" started Mycroft, only to be interrupted by Sherlock.

"By all means, get out of my sight! I don't want to see you anymore!"

Victor leers at him, sending an involuntary shudder down him. He wants to tear that smug smile on his face, the satisfaction that he could make him do whatever he wanted him to do. Mycroft shuts the door behind him.

"How dare you involve that vulgar 'Brown' woman in this?" he growls.

"Involve?" Sherlock feels outraged. Molly Brown had done what Mycroft should have done, "You were the one who-"

"I came. I'd have rescued you."

Sherlock tries to suppress a snort as he opens the door, pointing outwards, "He would have knotted me before you even came here. Father was right about you," he spat, "You're a coward."

Mycroft backs away, noting the vehemence and the spite with which his words were delivered. Sherlock grabs the keys to Mycroft's suite and turns away towards the door, only to stop for one last retort.

"Are you not coming back to your rooms?"

Mycroft frowns, but follows him to outside his suite, only to feel the ornate door of B-56 slam in his face, literally, giving Sherlock whatever little satisfaction he could derive from it. Mycroft massages his nose and looks at Andrea, standing there like a statue.

"What now, sir?"

He suppresses a sigh, "Get me Victor."

* * *

There's a soft knock on Sherlock's door. Before he can stop Mrs. Hudson, she flings it wide open to find Victor at the doorstep. Sherlock can hear his laboured breathing, and Mrs. Hudson's sharp inhale as she processes his presence. If it were up to her, she would have driven him away with a broomstick. But she remains silent, and gives him a curt, disrespectful bow, something which makes the Alpha's lips twitch into a grimace.

"Could you excuse us, Mrs. Hudson?"

She glances at Sherlock anxiously, afraid to leave him in the same room as him. Sherlock, knowing the expression on her face, turns around to relieve her. She turns around and stations herself near the door, just in case.

He lets the violin rest on his knee, his expression changing from impassive to outright murderous. He remains disconcertingly still, before his frustration takes hold of him, his voice taking a slightly ominous tone, "What are you doing here?"

"What you expect me to do," he says simply.

"I expect you to pack your things and throw yourself into the Atlantic."

Victor succumbs to laughter, "Admit it, Sherlock. You were _enjoying_ _it_."

His last words are absolutely fatal. Sherlock's breath picked up against his wishes as Victor drew closer, only to stop at a torturous distance from him, "See what I mean," he draws back, inspecting his perfectly manicured nails with a smug smile on his face. Sherlock's grip on the instrument tightens. He resists the urge to bash his head with it. The violin isn't worth it, he decides.

"I own you. If you think otherwise, then you're only kidding yourself."

Sherlock looks him in the eye, insubordinate, bold and with bottomless loathing, "You - do - not - own - me."

"Well, you're right," he replies casually, "Not yet, but I will," he licks his lips lecherously, his voice escaping into a whisper, "It's a certainty," and back to normal, "But anyway, I have come to apologize," He announced, his words transmuting into a shameless drawl, not even bothering to hide the callousness, "I'm sorry for..."

But they are drowned under mindless screeching of the scraping against the fiddle that Sherlock begins to counter with. Victor stops within an instant. And so does Sherlock.

"He said you would do that." The tone was amused, tutting at his predictability.

"GO away!" says he, clearly annoyed.

"Oh, too bad," Victor rises from his chair and proceeds towards the door, "I had a surprise planned for you. Exclusively for you. A wedding gift."

And, as usual, his curiosity gets the best of him, "What?"

"No, it's alright. I'll go away. But, for the record, I talked to Mr. Andrews over dinner tonight."

Sherlock becomes more attentive to that, but at the back of his mind he decides to start wailing on the fiddle if the idea was boring, maybe the screech he had especially composed with the intention of the "piece" being played when they would exchange vows in front of the Reverend. His anger disappears momentarily as he visualises the appalled guests, especially Mycroft. So marvellous!

"Well, he said he'll lead a tour group, starting from tomorrow," Sherlock was starting to hate his voice as well, "For two days. But you won't be interested, will you?" He gives him a grin made to rival the Cheshire cat, "Good night then, sweetpea-"

"When?"

"Right after the service, of course. You'll... attend the service, won't you?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Another trick of Mycroft wanting to teach him all things a good little Omega should indulge in like praying to outlandish fantasies like God.

"Why should I?"

He chuckles darkly, "I wish you to." These words don't have any element of humour in them, and Sherlock hated to admit it, but it was slightly putting him on edge, "Do not think that I've forgiven you for traipsing off with Doctor Watson into Third Class the previous night," his voice is calm even amidst the fury in his eyes. His hands crawl to the nape of his neck, grabbing a fistful of hair and urging him forward painfully. His lips are inches away from his, "You have seen what I can do to you, Sherlock. You're an intelligent Omega, and you know that **I** am your fiancée. That is the ultimate truth. You do what I want you to do. You _think_ whatever I want you to _think._ Do you understand me?"

"Mr. Trevor," comes a voice near the doorstep. Victor frowns and turns around to see Mycroft standing in the doorway. He had never called him 'Mr. Trevor'. The severe tone of the younger Alpha's voice is all it takes Victor to send a calculating glare in Sherlock's direction and turn to Mycroft with his charming smile back on.

"I trust that it is enough apology for one day."

"Oh, yes of course. But let's proceed back to brandy?"

"I'll be a moment. Andrea dear, kindly keep Mr. Trevor company on his way back."

Victor extends his arm to her, "Well, shall we dear?"

Mrs. Hudson comes out after Victor has left, looking extremely anxious, "I don't know what goes around in that swollen head of yours, Mycroft Holmes!" Mycroft looks away, not liking to be told about his failures at all, "How could you let your little brother-?!"

"Mrs. Hudson, don't you have more important things to do?" says he, mildly annoyed. Though his tone is a little harsh, he can no longer hold her gaze and turns his head away, lowering his eyes.

Sherlock merely glares at him as she stalks away, "What now?"

"To remind you that you haven't had dinner."

"I'm not hungry," he snaps.

"Go and have dinner," he orders him.

"Well, you've had my portion, haven't you? Why trouble the sad cooks when they have you to feed?!"

Mycroft lets out an exasperated sigh, and looks down at his brother, regret curling the edge of his lips downwards, "I am sorry," it's the most difficult set of words he has ever uttered.

"I bet they have got cramps by now," says he, completely disregarding Mycroft's apology. The latter simply bites his lower lip.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me?"

"Give me the keys to Victor's suite, will you?"

Mycroft frowns, "Why?"

"I'm going out tomorrow for that tour. I wouldn't want every Alpha gawking at me, would I? I need to mask this awful odour, smell like a Beta at least."

He hands him the keys, "Be back before-"

"Ten, I know. Now, go away. Shoo!"

* * *

**E/N:** Sorry for the rubbish ending.

I've always admired Molly Brown and the Countess of Rothes for their heroic intervention during the sinking, especially the Countess, so I decided to pay my respects to them, in my own way.

I hope you didn't unlike this chapter. I did this because Mycroft is clever enough to have known it all along, and there was no logical way in which John could have saved Sherlock in this scenario. Well, technically, it's because of him that Molly Brown returns to the suite and wants to go and meet him, but... you know!

So effectively, John saves Sherlock! Yay!

I'm sorry for making Mycroft look like such a tit, but logically speaking... oh, to hell with logic! How could I do this to my most fav character?! (Don't look at me weirdly, he IS my fav!) I'm sorry a million times, Mycroft.


	9. Last Day On Earth

Summary: The day after that, just the tour part and the little talk b/w the boys.

* * *

A/N: Another shitty chapter title! Looks like I'm setting a world record here.

I'm dedicating this chapter to Mr. Andrews. He's so sweet and I love him so much!

* * *

Sunday, 14th April, 1912

Mycroft Holmes somehow manages to drag his brother to the Sunday service, despite his threats to ruin it with announcing his shocking ideas about God.

"But not singing, Mycroft! I'm absolutely not going to sing!"

The conversation sounds like nothing had happened the previous day.

"Oh yes you are, Sherlock." He heaves a 'Good Grief!' sigh while adjusting his tie in the mirror, "Otherwise you'll be conveniently excused from the tour."

"Then I'll ruin it! I'll scream when I sing! The melody, the lyr-"

"Violin, Sherlock," says he ominously, "Your violin. Don't tempt me."

And that shut him up conveniently.

* * *

John comes down the Grand Staircase to D Deck reception room when he spots the naval architect writing away in his small black pocketbook.

"Hey, Mr. Andrews!"

The Beta looks up at him, his eyes shining with recognition, "Oh, hello, John! Any chance you're coming for the tour today?"

"Tour?"

"Yes, um... Victor here requested me to conduct an exploration of the ship for Sherlock yesterday. For free, of course. You should come along. I doubt many in First Class would be interested."

John smiles warmly, and then it fades away, "I don't think I'll be very welcome."

Mr. Andrews nods in understanding, "Still, if you can make it."

"Believe me, I'd love to. Such a wonderful ship, but anyway, I gotta go. Thanks for the invitation."

"Anytime."

John carries on, looking for any sightings of Mycroft or Victor, even Andrea. His list of haters has increased three fold since the dinner party.

At the divine service, Sherlock is sulking, probably making up hundred and eight ways to kill the Reverend, while they listen to a benediction about charity, chastity, humility, temperance, faith. Mycroft keeps his brother in hindsight, to reassure himself that he was still there, with him, near him. Safe and okay.

Gregson is seated in the last row, keeping an eye on Sherlock. He notices a commotion at the entry doors. John has been halted there by two stewards. He is dressed in his third class clothes, and stands there, hat in hand, looking out of place near the entrance to the First Class Dinner Saloon.

"I just need to speak to someone for a second."

"Look, you, you're not supposed to be in here," says the same steward who had wished him 'Good Evening' the two evenings ago.

"I was just here two days ago..." he protests, "don't you remember?" He sees Gregson coming toward him, "Shit!"

The stewards back away when they realise that John is someone he recognises. Gregson's bland face screws up into a hollow smile, "Mr. Trevor and Mr. Holmes continue to be most appreciative of your assistance. They asked me to give you this in gratitude," he holds out two twenty pound bills.

"I don't want your money, let me-"

"-And also to remind you," says Gregson, raising his voice, "that you hold a third class ticket and your presence here is no longer appropriate."

"But I just need to speak to Sherlock for one second!"

He spots Sherlock but the latter doesn't see him. He's too busy plotting murders.

"Gentlemen," he hands the steward the bills, "please see that Mr. Watson gets back where he belongs. And that he _stays_ there."

The stewards look at each other. Twenty was like a goldmine, " Yes sir! Come along, you."

Mycroft and Victor watch John being hustled out. They all rise, music starting, and Captain Smith leads the parishioners in "Eternal Father, Strong to Save."

John's haters have increased fourfold.

* * *

Thomas Andrews is leading the small tour group, including Sherlock, Mycroft, Victor and Andrea. They have reached the gymnasium. A woman pedals a stationary bicycle in a long dress, looking ridiculous. Victor is working the oars of a stationary rowing machine with a well trained stroke.

"Reminds me of my Harvard days," says he, eliciting a dramatic roll of eyes from Sherlock. He never fails to show-off.

McCauley, the gym instructor, is a bouncy little man in white flannels, eager to show off his modern equipment, like his present-day counterpart in commercials. He hits a switch and a machine with a saddle on it starts to undulate. Sherlock puts his hand on it, curious. He is slightly uncomfortable with the scarf around his neck in the sun, concealing his true odour in spite of the makeshift Beta scent he has put on. But since it was something that succeeded to displease Victor, it was almost worth it.

"It might be just the thing you need, brother. Show some mercy on your poor clothes!" says he, gaining a roll of eyes from his brother. Mycroft notes the absence of the usual 'dear' or 'mine' after brother. He shifts his weight to the other foot guiltily.

"The electric horse is very popular," says the instructor, "We even have an electric camel," then he turns to Andrea, "Care to try your hand at the rowing, ma'am?"

"Don't be absurd," one of the women pipe in before Andrea can open her mouth, "There's no other skill we should likely need less."

"The next stop on our tour will be bridge," says Andrews, "This way, please."

They exit and encounter Daniel Marvin outside, whose father had founded the Biograph Film Studio. He has a "cinematograph" camera mounted on a tripod, as he films his young bride, Mary Marvin, against the blue sea. Mary stands stiffly and smiles, self conscious.

"Not smiling! You're sad. Sad, sad, sad! You've left your lover on the shore," says he, cranking the big wooden movie camera, "You may never see him again. Try to be sadder, darling."

Mary Marvin, without an acting fibre in her body, poses tragically at the rail, the back of her hand to her forehead.

Marvin turns around and spots Mr. Andrews smiling at them, "Oh, hello Thomas, so good to see you!" Both the men shake hands cordially.

"Hello, Daniel! Out shooting again?"

"Each one has their own weakness, Thomas. Yours is the ship, mine is the camera."

"Ladies, gentlemen," he indicates to the couple, "Mr. Daniel Marvin and his wife, Mary Marvin."

Sherlock meanwhile reaches out for the camera curiously as others, who have heard of him shake hands with them.

"How does this work?" he mutters to himself, but Mary steps in.

"You see, you only-" but she stops when she sees the glare on his face, "What? I was only helping you out!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sets down to examine the camera. He's quite having the time of his life, getting to touch and experience machines that he has never seen before. Marvin's retreats back to the camera, "Would you like to be filmed, sir?"

Mary lets out an audible sound of dissent, but Sherlock smiles a little, "I think I would."

"And if you wouldn't mind, me too," says Mr. Andrews, smiling merrily, eyes twinkling with excitement.

Mycroft rolls his eyes, while watching his brother with an amused expression on his face as Victor turns away, not interested in the little trip at all. For him, the tour is only a way to gain Sherlock back. Several others join in too, wanting to be captured by the camera.

"But strangers in _our_ film, Daniel," she says, but she stops just as her husband starts speaking to his newest cast.

"Okay, men and women, look up at the ship, that's it. You're amazed! You just can't believe how big it is!" He gets into the director persona, completely forgetting that Mr. Andrews was the one who had designed the ship, "Like a mountain. Way to go!"

Sherlock playfully does a bad pantomime of awe, hands raised, just for the hell of it. Mary lets out another sigh, which causes Sherlock to glare daggers at her.

"Do you know that you're the worst actress of all time?" he snaps, saying what Marvin hasn't been able to say all these years. He tries to look slightly affronted and rushes forward to console his wife. Mycroft gives him a murderous look.

"Can we move this along please?" Victor is clearly exasperated and wants to get it over with.

"Er... yes, sorry," says Mr. Andrews, face flushing slightly with embarrassment, "I got carried away. This way please."

* * *

John, walking with determination, is followed closely by Greg and Mike. He quickly climbs the steps to B Deck and steps over the gate separating 3rd from 2nd class.

"He's a God amongst mortal men," says Mike, "and an Omega. There's no denyin'. But he's in another world, Johnny, forget him. He left you, he's closed the door. You'll lose one of your limbs for this."

John moves furtively to the wall below the A-Deck promenade, aft.

"It was them, not him. I saw despair in his eyes and I don't want to see it no more," he glances around the deck, "Ready, go!"

Mike shakes his head resignedly and puts his hands together, crouching down. John steps into Mike's hands and gets boosted up to the next deck, where he scrambles awkwardly over the railing, onto the First Class deck. He slips into the coat and the hat onto his head and continues his search, looking for the tour group.

"He's not being logical, I tell ya!"

Greg leads him away, "Love is not logical, my friend."

* * *

"And why do you have two steering wheels?" asks Sherlock.

"Well, we use this one near the shore."

Harold Bride, the 21 year old Junior Wireless Operator, hustles in and skirts around Andrews' tour group to hand a Marconigram to Captain Smith.

"Excuse me, sir. Another ice warning. This one's from the 'Baltic'."

"Thank you, Bride."

Smith glances at the message, and then nonchalantly puts it in his pocket. He nods reassuringly to Mycroft and the group.

"Not to worry, gents. Quite normal for this time of year. In fact, we're speeding up. I've just ordered the last boilers lit-"

"Speeding up?" Mycroft's eyes narrow at that, "Shouldn't you be-"

"This place is a floating pool of icebergs," Sherlock interrupts, "Suppose one were to come in its path... the ship is too big to be steered around it with precision!"

Mr. Andrews too scowls slightly at the Captain's reassurance, "May I have a word, Captain?"

The others look around at engine telegraphs. Victor glances at his pocket-watch. The process is taking too long. Sherlock hears something around the lines of "Surprise... if we got into New York the Tuesday night" and "the ship being too big to manoeuvre". He frowns and looks away at the sky, watching seagulls in their flight. Sometimes he wishes if he could also just spread out his arms and fly.

Andrews murmurs a small apology, before motioning the group toward the door. They exit just as Second Officer Charles Lightoller comes out of the chartroom, stopping next to First Officer Lt. William Murdoch.

"Did we ever find those binoculars for the lookouts?"

"Haven't seen them since Southampton."

* * *

Andrews leads the group back from the bridge along the boat deck, after telling them all about how to work the davits.

"Mr. Andrews," says Sherlock, "Are you sure that there are 2200 people aboard?"

He looks slightly curious, "Yes, of course. Why?"

"And the capacity of the ship is over three thousand, am I correct?"

"Absolutely. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I see that there are only twenty lifeboats, out of which six are Emergency ones. Plus, taking in account the frenzy that might cause one or two boats to be rendered useless during the event of a sinking-"

"I see your point, Sherlock," Mr. Andrews cuts in, not able to bear to think of his ship sinking, "First of all, if we went by the maritime laws, you'll see that this ship has more lifeboat accommodations than legally required. But, taking into account the huge number of people aboard, I put in these new type davits, like I told you, which can take an extra row of boats here."

"New type?" he inquired sharply, "You mean the crew haven't had a drill yet?"

"No, I'm afraid, not all of them. You see, the Titanic's launch date was already delayed, and Mr. Ismay," he lowers his voice, "Well, you know what he's like. I had proposed more boats, but it was thought by certain some," he gives him a you-know-who look, "that the deck would look too cluttered. Also, I had suggested that the watertight bulkheads be extended till B Deck instead of E Deck as it is now. Considering the passenger accommodations... I was overruled."

Victor slaps the side of one of the boats, "Waste of deck space as it is, on an unsinkable ship!"

"Well, it does make you feel like you're at sea," says Mycroft.

"Try being underwater, Mycroft. The sea would feel splendid there."

Andrews chuckles, "Have no fear, my dear boy! The Titanic is as nearly perfect as human brains can make her," Sherlock makes an acknowledging 'hmm' at that, running in his mind the various design flaws he has accumulated till that point, "She's all the lifeboat you need. Keep heading aft. The next stop is the engine room."

Sherlock doesn't say anything to counter it. He likes Mr. Andrews, he decides.

As they are passing Boat 7, a gentlemen turns from the rail and walks up behind the group. It is John. He taps Sherlock on the arm and he turns, eyes widening in surprise. He motions and Sherlock cuts away from the group toward a door which John holds open. They duck into the gymnasium. John closes the door behind him, and glances out through the ripple-glass window to the starboard rail, where the gym instructor is chatting up the woman who was riding the bike. Sherlock and John are alone in the room.

"Dunno why I keep ending up here," he says jokingly, trying to lift Sherlock's mood. The latter does not meet his eyes," Mycroft kidnapped you that night."

"Said he'd... never mind, I don't give a damn about what he says anyway. He's not that frightening."

This manages to make Sherlock smile a little bit, "John, I-"

"Are you alright now?" he interrupts, "Mrs. Brown told me that you were ill. Was it that night, the party?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow momentarily at John for even thinking that a party could make him ill, but at the mention of Mrs. Brown's name, the incidents of the previous day come back to him, haunting him and making him sick to the core. Revulsion rises through his gut like bile. With a sharp intake of breath, he collects himself, remembering his brother's very real threat. John looks at him sadly.

"Don't... Sherlock, you... can't you be yourself just for once?"

"I am myself," says he, but he knows that John is right.

"No, you aren't. This isn't you -" but he's interrupted by Sherlock before he can say anything.

"John," Sherlock takes him by his shoulders, trying to hammer some sense into him, "you don't understand. That night," he closes his eyes as the terrible words form in his mouth, "that night was a mistake. Forget about it."

Sherlock hates himself when he sees John looking so utterly lost and wounded. His eyes narrow, but then the crease between his brows disappear, "No, it wasn't," he urges, eyes begging not to say things like that, "You know it. I saw it in your eyes. And I still do. Yeah, you might think that - that pompous excuse of a brother of yours can throw me overboard," Sherlock flinches at how accurate he is, "I don't care... You're mad, you know that? You're crazy, demented in ways I didn't even know could exist! And you're driving ME crazy... I mean, I keep looking for trouble so that I can only tell you about it."

"John, my bro-"

"No, wait! Let me try and get this out. You're awesome, and so much... and I wish I could... help. You have all these dreams, and that, that - Victor isn't worth you," he gently cups Sherlock's cheek with his hand, cherishing the feel of the smooth skin under his rough one as he softly strokes his cheek with his thumb. Sherlock looks into his eyes and wants to keep his own palm on his warm hand but he doesn't, "He's never gonna see what I see, Sherlock."

"John," he breaks away, "my brother, and more worryingly, Victor isn't afraid to play dirty when he wants to. You must know that."

"I know! I saw that the day before yesterday! But I can't let go, Sherlock. I'm involved now. You jump, I jump, remember? I can't turn away without knowing that you're goin' to be alright... that's all I want."

Sherlock feels like he has a big lump in his throat. John was ready to risk everything for him, even his own life and everything he had worked for, just for him. He is so open, so real, without any trace of a deceit. And there's that feeling again, that overwhelming feeling of what they could have together, what they could be together. And it's too strong for him to handle. He feels like he's going to have a God-to-honest meltdown. He wants John to help, but he can't let him.

"You're just letting me watch them tear your soul out of you, bit by bit. And don't tell me you're fine," he quickly says as he sees Sherlock open his mouth to reply, "I know you're not. You _have_ to break free, Sherlock because, sooner or later, that fire in your eyes that I love about you, it's gonna blow out. And I can't let that happen to you."

For one second, it looks like Sherlock wants to give in, but then he straightens up, his face painfully twisting into something resembling normalcy, "I can't let anything happen to you."

John looks down, and takes Sherlock's hand in his own, kissing it and squeezing it slightly, "I'll be okay, Sherlock. I'm a survivor. Just don't - go back... please."

He pleads with his eyes. Sherlock tries to speak, but words, for the first time, don't come to him. He wishes for this heart-wrenching moment to end and never end as he gazes into John's blue irises. Finally, he swallows and manages to mutter, looking down at the floor.

"I have to go. For your sake, for _both_ of our sakes."

And he extracts his hand from John's grip, hating every second of the loss of contact, and walks away, leaving him disappointed.

* * *

Sherlock joins the rest of the group near the Marconi Room. He has lost his interest in the tour as Mr. Andrews shows an awed audience the top of the Grand Staircase.

"Well, then, ladies and gentlemen, our tour concludes for the day. We shall pick up from here, tomorrow, eleven in the morning after breakfast, shall we?"

Most of them nod with fervour. It seems that the small group has had some more additions as the day passed, because there's also the Astors and Mr. Guggenheim with Madame Aubert. The men retreat to their own company while Andrea takes Sherlock's arm, forcibly leading him to the First Class Lounge for tea. This was what his life was going to be, to be led around on a leash, like he was some animal.

"Oh, hello Andrea," Lucille and Noëlle greet them, "and Sherlock. I trust you're feeling well today, given that you had a lovely tour of the ship."

The First Class Lounge is most elegant room on the ship, done in Louis Quinze Versaille style. Sherlock does not even bother to grace the ladies with a nod as he sits on the divan and unfolds the napkin over his lap. He does not feel the urge to deduce anything about them as he sits silently, not a finger tapping on the table, lost in thoughts.

John's eyes haunt him. He has never cared so deeply for any other person, not after only three days. Deeply enough that he chooses to throw himself into the pit just to keep him safe from Victor's wrath. The feeling that John was ready to give up everything just to be with him, just to save him, even though it wasn't up to him, is overwhelming and nothing short of scary.

"Where are Mycroft and Victor, dear?" Lucille asks Andrea, trying not to look insulted by Sherlock not acknowledging her presence.

"Oh, they'll be along."

"Well, it's nice enough without them, we can talk about something more worthwhile than politics and horses! But tell me, Sherlock," he whips around at the mention of his name, "Won't you be inviting us? ... I mean, the invitations have indeed reached us, but this is your wedding, Sherlock! Your big day!"

Sherlock simply sighs, "Well, someone's looking forward to it."

Noëlle and Lucille both look quite shocked to hear that.

"Why, my dear," says Lucille, prying as always, "Aren't you happy?"

Noëlle interrupts before Sherlock can answer venomously, "Everyone says that, Sherlock. Then you get married and stability and bliss follow."

He wants to snort at her last words, but he finds that he can't. What was the point of ridiculing it if that was what was going to happen to him? He gives them a terse nod and they return back to their conversation, deciding that Sherlock was still not in a mood to talk.

At the far end of the room, he watches the man he is going to spend the rest of his life with: ruthless, stony-faced, selfish and frankly terrifying with his cool and calm exterior. Victor Trevor was someone who quite resembled Mycroft, except Mycroft would never hurt a hair upon his head. Victor was unpredictable, uncompromising, and his composed business persona was something that rendered him much more dangerous than a typical hot-headed Alpha. He could go to any lengths to attain what he had set his eye upon.

Never hurt a hair upon his head! Mycroft had done much worse than that.

Hatred bubbles through him at the thought of Victor's hands all over his body, claiming him like a prize. The rational part of his brain tells him that there's no point in revenge. But the vengeful side of him screams like a wounded beast bound in chains, to agree to go back to him for the night and throttle him in his sleep, or give him a nigh undetectable poison.

Not poison, it had to be slow and torturous for him, for years and years. A monster like him did not deserve a quick death.

Or maybe crash his stocks? Sell them to his rivals secretly? For that, he would have to be married first. And that was always a completely unacceptable notion. He could not live with him, not with that dirty, lustful gaze all over him whenever he would be in Heat. Last afternoon was only a dress rehearsal for what was to come if he married him.

And then, realisation sinks in. What John was trying to convince him and what he already knew, but was too conflicted to act upon, torn between sentiments. What he had been telling his brother all along.

_I own you Sherlock_, comes the voice of the Victor inside him, in his mind, his terrible voice trying to suck him back into the abyss that the Bible called Hell.

_If you think otherwise, then you're only kidding yourself._

_You're pathetic_, he tells the Victor inside him, _God save the woman or the Omega who marries you. _There's no point diverting his energies towards the revenge that would come sooner or later. Not when he could do something more worthwhile.

His heart hammers powerfully in his chest as he remembers the feel of John's palm against his cheek. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat and compose himself-

Why was he composing himself? What for?

Could a person exchange one life for another?

A caterpillar turns into a butterfly. If a brainless insect could do it, why not he?

To hell with Mycroft and his status. Decision made, he calmly and deliberately turns his teacup over, spilling the now cold tea all over himself. The ladies gasp.

"Oh dear," says he, "look what I've done."

* * *

E/N: Thomas Andrews had actually said to a friend on the day of sinking that The Titanic was 'as nearly perfect as human brains can make her'.

I think you know what's coming next!

To be continued. xxx


	10. Learning To Fly

**Summary:** Sherlock chooses John over everything else

* * *

**A/N:** Fav part of the movie: flying! Finally! And some little fluff.

I cried when I wrote this, when I think that the sinking is only hours away :'(

Unbeta'd work means typos, typos, typos! Point 'em out if you find 'em please! :)

* * *

The Titanic cuts through water like glass as John stares at the ocean, leaning over the apex of the bow railing, his favourite spot. Dusk is falling and the sky is painting itself blue and red and orange and purple, preparing itself for a marvellous sunset. But John isn't affected by the beauty of his surroundings or the din of the rush of water below. Nothing mattered to him as he feels the helpless feeling of having tried hard, yet having accomplished nothing. He closes his eyes, letting the chill wind clear his head.

"John."

He straightens up and turns around to see Sherlock standing there. He's a little surprised to see stains of tea on his otherwise pristine suit.

Sherlock comes near him, and smiles. Somehow, the noise seems to decrease in its intensity. John's eyes drink the sight of him in: his otherwise pallid cheeks are pink with the chilly wind, his curls blow wildly about his face, dishevelled and perfect. He wants to reach out and mess them up just a little more, but he isn't sure how Sherlock would react to that.

"Um... I... Gavin said..."

"Shhh..." he puts a finger on his lips, ignoring the wrong name, and then extends one hand forward, "Give me your hand."

Sherlock stands at a lower ground than John, making him look up at the young Alpha, into the blue of his eyes. Mesmerised, he extends both of his hands. John looks from one to another, frowning a little in confusion, then choosing the hand on which the engagement ring isn't there. They stand like that for a few seconds, feeling and cherishing the sparks lighting up.

"Now close your eyes," he whispers, gently pulling him towards him. He's still somehow audible over the din. Sherlock's eyes grow wide with surprise at his request, making John chuckle.

"I asked you to close your eyes, you idiot!" He remarks, anointing it with Sherlock's favourite word, "Not make them bigger."

Sherlock smiles as he closes his eyes, trusting the man in front of him. John turns away, urging him forward, the way the ship is going, with a hand in the small of his back, holding onto him. Sherlock's breath catches as he steps up onto the apex, the other hand feeling for the railing. This one time, his innate sense of trust in John surpasses his curiosity, and he keeps his eyes resolutely closed.

John reaches out to take the restricting scarf off his neck and puts it in the pocket of his greatcoat, before taking it off his shoulders as well. Sherlock wonders what he is doing, but does not question. He stays unnaturally quiet and patient as John tugs the suit jacket away from him, and dumps the garments on the floor.

"Gosh, people are going to talk now," he says jokingly, "Me taking off your jacket in here."

Sherlock smiles, "They do little else."

"Now hold on to the railing," John is directly behind him now and he guides his other hand to the railing, "Keep your eyes closed. Don't peek."

"I'm not."

The whiff of the Estrus reaches him. Sherlock's Beta scent stayed for only eight hours. John swallows, controlling the Alpha instincts inside him and places him hands on his waist, with only a piece of fabric between them, preventing the contact between skin and skin, "Okay, now step up onto the rail."

Sherlock takes the cable in his grip as he steps up. John follows suit behind him, stepping up two rods so that he is level with him. Sherlock lets go of the rail, balancing himself. His heart starts pounding when he realises that one slip can send both of them tumbling underwater. But somehow, that thought isn't as terrifying as it should have been. John takes his free hand, squeezing it slightly.

"Hold on. Keep your eyes closed."

Sherlock can tell that they were standing up on the rail, doing God-knows-what. But he still doesn't see the point.

"Do you trust me?" John asks, already knowing the answer.

"With everything." And beyond. There's so much to say, so much to confess, so much to be sorry for, but they don't say much. The roar of the ocean below is nothing compared to the the noise of all that they're not saying.

He gently reaches out for Sherlock's arms and raises them slowly, uncertainly. He is not sure whether Sherlock would appreciate his gesture, but he outstretches them anyway. Sherlock frowns and smiles, still not able to understand why they were doing whatever they were doing. He turns his head halfway several times to ask John but doesn't say anything. He simply goes along with him. When John lowers him arms, Sherlock's arms stay up... like wings. He knows that John would not let him fall if he were to lose his balance all of a sudden. He knows that John would come after him. He does not need anyone to tell him that.

John places his arm around his waist tentatively, slowly relaxing as Sherlock leans into his touch, their hearts still pounding furiously. The feeling of closeness is just... good, not frightening anymore.

"Okay," John whispers in his ears, "Open your eyes."

Sherlock gasps. There is nothing in his field of vision but water. It's like there is no ship under them at all, just the two of them soaring like birds and kites. The Atlantic unrolls toward them, a hammered copper shield under a dusk sky, celebrating them with the magnificent sunset. There is only the wind, and the hiss of the water fifty feet below.

"I'm flying, John! See! It feels like flying!"

He leans forward, arching his back, revelling in the moment. John wraps his hands around his waist to steady him, rejoicing at his happiness, his deep laughter, the sound of freedom and the feel of the chilly wind blowing through his hair.

The feeling is unearthly, thrilling, something Sherlock has never felt before. The seagulls join them in their flight, one last time before the sun slipped down the horizon, just for them.

It's his first taste of what being free was like, and by Jove, it is exhilarating.

Sherlock closes his eyes, letting the wind wash over him, feeling himself floating weightless far above the sea, letting wild imagination take over cold reason for the first time. He smiles dreamily, then leans back, gently pressing his back against John's chest. He pushes forward slightly against him, resting his chin in the hollow between the side of his face and his shoulder.

He wants to scream, to jump like a child, he feels like he's on the top of the world, towering over the sea, invincible with John behind him, always to hold him, to steady him. Anything he wants to do just isn't enough, not enough to match this surreal and yet lifelike moment. His family, his name, his fiancée, his whole life vanishes in thin air, all deleted scraps, awaiting disposal from his mind. There's John, only John. No one else.

Slowly John raises his hands too, arms outstretched, and they meet Sherlock's... fingertips gently touching.

"It's a crime," he whispers.

"Hmm?"

"You being so tall and lanky. Puts a strain on me, just to make these bloody fingers meet."

Sherlock giggles softly. "I'm not going to make it easy for you, John," he teases, "you jumped headfirst into dangerous territory."

"Oh, are you? I'm always up for a challenge, love."

He extends his arms a little more till their fingers intertwine. Moving slowly, their fingers caress through and around each other sensually, like the bodies of two lovers. It is nothing like the hormone-induced daze that Estrus brings in. It's deeper, much more, inexpressible, surpassing all logic. He slowly lowers their arms, till they're at the level of his waist as John's fingertips sweep gently over Sherlock's arms. He buries his face into his curls, letting his scent wash over him, until his cheek is against his ear. A slight brush creates the dangerous amount of sparks, making Sherlock turn around, until his lips are close to his.

Turning further around, he leans in tentatively. His last thing he sees is John's eyes closing, his blond hair now turned copper, and his kind, radiant smile. John finds his mouth with his, wrapping his arms around him lovingly from behind. Lips meet, and they kiss with his head turned and tilted back, surrendering to him, to sentiment, to the inevitable. They kiss, slowly and tremulously, and then with building passion and frenzy.

John and the ship seem to merge into one being, lifting him, buoying him forward on a journey, soaring onward into a night without fear. The ship isn't a slave ship anymore. Titanic has set them free.

They break away, noses still touching, hearts beating, to catch a breath. John smiles, not wanting to say anything, not wanting to ruin the moment. Sherlock's eyes travels upwards. In the crow's nest, the two lookouts are gawking at them, maybe at their kissing, maybe at their daredevilry at kissing in public and that too at the apex of the bow. John follows his gaze, and waves at the two lookouts happily. They burst into laughter as the lookouts look away, slightly embarrassed.

"We're... so stupid, aren't we?" John pants, completely out of breath. Sherlock leans in again, making their foreheads touch.

"Well..." he's just as out of breath as John, "I don't... know about you... but... I'm definitely... not stupid!"

John giggles like a school girl and plants a chaste kiss on his lips before leaning over the bow again, pointing into the distance and grinning, "Look, I can see the Statue Of Liberty already!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, linking their hands together, "Really? Is she facing you, or away from you?"

"It's so small!" He protests, "I can't really make out."

"Show-off," he mutters.

"Says the one who shows off!"

In the glassy bow-wave two dolphins appear, under the water, running fast just in front of the steel blade of the bow.

"Look!" John points them out to Sherlock.

They rush ahead of the liner, competing with her speed. They do it for the sheer joy and exultation of motion. They watch the dolphins and grin. The majestic sea-creatures breach, jumping clear of the water and then dive back, crisscrossing in front of the bow, dancing ahead of the juggernaut. Competing for a last time before they retreat to their depths, leaving the ship's company. Sherlock pulls back from the apex but John's hands keep him in his place.

"What?"

He points at the purple and orange dusk sky, "Sunset."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "It'll stay for another four minutes and thirty six seconds."

"Oh," John grins at him, "how do you know? Calculated the speed of the sun going down? Did some weird math?"

"Nothing of that sort, _Doctor_."

John crosses his arms over his chest, trying to look offended and failing miserably, "You making fun of me now?"

"I told you," he smirks, "I'm not going to make it easy on you."

"Neither am I," he pulls him down for another heated kiss. Sherlock leans down eagerly, wrapping him arms around his waist. This time, the kiss is more awkward because John has never kissed anyone taller than him and likewise, Sherlock has never kissed anyone shorter than him. But nevertheless, they were together and that was all that mattered now. They fumble down, giggling again and break away, stumbling down the bow and back to the well deck, after collecting Sherlock's greatcoat.

Suddenly, Sherlock sees the Marvin couple and points at them, "Have you ever seen a camera?"

"I see it now. Come on!"

Daniel Marvin is still stuck with filming his wife, giving her patient and repeated instructions.

"Look at the sunset, dear! Your heart yearns for him. This is the last time, and you don't want to live anymore. Bring that in your face, sweetheart!"

Suddenly, John shoots into the shot and strikes a hero-sort-of-pose at the rail next to Mary, chest puffed, chin up. Mary bursts out laughing. John pulls Sherlock into the picture and makes him pose as well.

Marvin grins and starts yelling and gesturing, silently thanking God for getting him a better cast for his beloved camera.

"Woohoo! Let's do this, fellas! Mary, by the rail, sad, depressed, crying. Blondie," he mentions to John, making Sherlock chuckle, "freeze in a position, left hand stretched towards Mary. Other leg pointing towards her. Express helplessness and horror. Otter face," he points at Sherlock, making both John and Mary laugh out like idiots as Sherlock's face drops and transforms into a snarl, "between the two of them, like a theatrical villain. Separating them. Look down at Blondie, body language triumphant, eyes glinting with menace. Put that coat on!"

The three of them pose while Daniel Marvin captures them against the gloriously blazing sunset.

"Now," he barks, making them jump, "Blondie, on your knees, plead with your hands clasped. Mary, out of the picture now. Otter face-"

"I'm not 'Otter Face'!" He demands petulantly, "I'm Sherlock!"

"Yes yes," says he dismissively, his director persona not giving a damn about what Sherlock felt or said, "Stand, turn your head in bored disdain. You're Blondie's dad. Make your face 'no can do'."

"You're a horrible director!" Sherlock declares, as if passing a verdict.

Marvin grins, "Yeah, I know. I get that all the time."

"Why're you doing photoshoots?"

"Bad director, huh?" says Marvin challengingly, "You do it then!"

Sherlock eagerly takes the camera, his plan successful. He cranks it up, while Daniel and John have a western shoot-out. John winks and leers into the lens, twirling an air moustache.

John sits down on the steps leading to the bow, pretending to be some sort of a Sultan, while Mary comes up to him, pantomiming fanning him like a slave girl. He winks at Sherlock, with the aim of making him a little jealous, which surprisingly works. Sherlock grabs John and walks away rudely, leaving John to do the apologizing. He doubles up with laughter on seeing his indignant face.

"Very funny, John. I can barely contain myself."

John doesn't counter with anything, still shaking with laughter, "Otter face!"

"At any rate, it's better than 'Blondie' and 'Hamish'!" he snaps, but John still keeps giggling until Sherlock gives in too.

"You know, people are going to think that we're mad!"

"Of course, we are! I'm a man who jumps off steamer ships, and you're a man who jumps after those who jump off ships. Any other description would be a lie," they end up laughing again.

"Mr. Holmes!" comes a voice from behind them.

"Shit!" John exclaims and looks behind involuntarily, "Your brother's sent the _bloody_ master-at-arms after us!"

Sherlock laughs out loud, "No, John. He's here because of the Jennifer Wilson case. If he had to send anyone it would have been Mr. Gregson. Victor's valet," he supplies helpfully, upon seeing John's confused face.

"Mr. Holmes, about that-"

"Yes, yes. The Wilsons' case. The statement. May we trouble you tomorrow? You'll have them under arrest till we reach New York, is that right?"

"Yes, but the-"

"Good evening, sir. We're getting late for... dinner!"

With that Sherlock sweeps out of there with John, leaving the master-at-arms bemused at what had just happened.

"...Anyway, speaking of arrests," his face lights up, like he's plotting something bad in his mind, "How much apprenticeship have you had working as an assistant to various Practitioners?"

"Not much. I just know how to do stitches, first aid and stuff. Couldn't manage a permanent job," John frowns, "Why?"

* * *

Sherlock and John make their way into the gymnasium, picking the lock effortlessly. John updates his profile in his mind again: conman, pickpocket, safecracker, violinist, lock pick...

"What are you doing?"

"Making sure that you get enough medical practice aboard the ship!" says he with a wink. John isn't entirely sure by what he means.

A few minutes ago, Sherlock had borrowed an electric torch from one of the littler seamen, using his commanding voice to intimidate the man. John had no idea what Sherlock planned to do with an electric torch in a gym, clearly when it was time for dinner. He sets down on every machine, setting to work with a small screwdriver and pliers he had... borrowed, shall we say, from one of the engineers rushing through the Boat Deck. It takes John a long time to process that Sherlock is loosening the screws off every exercise machine. John pulls him away.

"Sherlock!" He cannot help the smile which creeps up on his face, "What the hell are you doing?!"

"Told you," he confesses innocently, "getting you some medical practice. There aren't enough doctors aboard, only three, including you."

"But Sherlock, those who... they'll fall down and break... something!"

He frowns, "That's the point. You get to treat them. Some medical experience on the Titanic. You could put that in your résumé."

"No-"

"Look," he motions at the stationary cycle, letting him on his real intentions, "Mycroft pretends that he doesn't care about his weight. But I know that he works out every morning, before everyone arrives. Tomorrow morning, he sits on here, and falls down with a mighty crash with at least a broken hip. Just imagine!"

John bursts into laughter at his idea, "God... you're demented, you know that?"

Sherlock leans in for a small kiss in the darkness, "That's an awfully good pickup line, _Doctor_ Watson. Where'd you get it?"

John tiptoes up to return it, "Got the inspiration from a fella who tried to jump off the back of a ship."

He swallows when Sherlock's scent reaches him for the third time.

In Heat, John concludes, and suddenly his "illness" strikes him, That's why he was indoors yesterday. And naturally, another thought crosses his mind.

Had Victor known?

He swings his arms around his neck, watching the shadows and the white light from the electric torch dance across his regal face. Sherlock leans in again, this time till he's at John's level. But instead of a kiss, John buries himself in his chest, inhaling him, making sure that he was there for real, with him. He recalls Sherlock's desperation from the afternoon. He simply couldn't think of it. He couldn't say it.

He feels the extraordinarily powerful throbbing in Sherlock's chest. He didn't need to think of it. He doesn't not want to remind Sherlock of it by telling him.

"John."

He pulls back and looks up into his eyes. Even in the dark, it was like staring into the sun and the desire to look away was immense, but even as he feels himself flush he keeps his eyes on Sherlock, grounding himself to reality while letting himself float. Something comes over him as he gently presses Sherlock against the wall and kisses him again, burying his fingers in his curls, mouths melting together, this time much heated than the tentative kiss they had shared earlier. Sherlock closes his eyes and thinks of flying. So precious, so...

"Hey, why's the door to the gym open?" comes a raspy voice from outside. Sherlock and John break apart instantly, with Sherlock almost jumping to switch the light off. Suddenly, someone throws the door open. They sneak into a dark corner as the seaman looks around for any intruders.

"Through here," John whispers, pointing to the open door. They rise from the nook and make it stealthily to the door, only to be spotted by another seaman outside.

"They're in here, Frank!"

John looks back. They're pointing towards them.

"Quick! Take my hand!" They break into a run in the direction of the First Class Entrance, the rush of blood and adrenaline from earlier immensely helping them outrun the two seamen, surprising the stewards and a lot of people marching in for dinner. Fortunately, no one manages to recognise Sherlock. The run past the Grand Staircase and manage to merge into a group of people heading towards the elevators. The seamen don't get in, of course, and Sherlock and John heave a sigh of relief.

"That was-" John pants, "That was ridiculous. Breaking into the gym... most... ridiculous thing... I've ever done!"

"And to think you survived the streets!"

"What now?" John asks him, laughter subsiding as people look around at them.

He looks at the elevator, "I have an idea."

* * *

One of the molds that the White Star Line had created while considering the sheltering of Third Class passengers in its ships was that the single men are quartered in the forward areas, while single women, married couples and families are quartered aft. So, effectively, they had come the right way, Sherlock decides. The elevator takes Sherlock and John till E Deck, after which they walk together to the stairs leading to F Deck.

"You wanna see the swimming pool?" John asks hopefully.

"We'll go there tomorrow," says he decisively, thinking about the Beta scent he had been preparing with the help of his chemistry set, "Right now, I have other plans for us."

John does not fail to notice the glimmer in his eyes as he speaks and laces their fingers together. He grins up at him as they finally get to G Deck berthing after lots of running around, through the corridors where they run into several mail clerks, messing up their post parcels, and some other people going up for dinner. At last, they end up near G-60, the cubicle which John shares with Mike and the two Swedes.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" Sherlock asks with a smirk, one eyebrow up in midair. John opens the door for him, "After you, Monsieur Holmes."

Sherlock casts his gaze around the room. It is a modest cubicle, painted enamel white, with four bunks. Exposed pipes overhead, with a washbasin near one of the bunks. A porthole is opened to keep the room cool during the day. John sighs and reaches out to close it.

"Your drawing supplies," He points at what he assumes to be John's bunk, "We'll need them."

John frowns, but acquiesces anyway, "Okay."

After they have got all the necessary materials, they navigate their way up, with Sherlock occasionally dropping appalling conclusions about the people walking past them. Almost every time, Sherlock can manage a straight face while John doubles up with laughter. People look at them once because they're a very odd couple, twice because John keeps on laughing to himself with Sherlock at the pinnacle of sobriety, and thrice since a quick sniff tells the Alphas that there's an Unbonded Omega in Heat amongst them. It is a mystery how John has managed to keep his hands off this Omega all the time.

"Stop that!" he snarls as he bursts into laughter for the umpteenth time, "Stop making me laugh!"

"Well, you don't really seem to mind," says he, with an amused sort of expression, "And look at that one," he points at an elderly man looking pretty much like all the First Class elderly men looked like. "Tripped over his dog today and also fell into the pool. Pushed, I'd say."

John pinches himself to prevent himself from laughing like a maniac. They make their way to B Deck into Victor's suite. Sherlock opens the door to let John in, who gazes around in undisguised wonder. He truly is overwhelmed and fascinated by the opulence of the room as he sets his sketchbook and drawing materials on the marble table.

"Well... I'm not sure if I can draw such... 'orreeble things," he says jokingly, "if zat's what you want. But let me tell you, I do have some standards, Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock smiles. John would truly be surprised when he puts forward his request. The smart, witty adolescent in him cuts a scathing reply, "Your French is awful, has anyone told you that?"

"All part of the charm," says he, bowing and scraping, "But don't tell me you want me to draw the room. I do human figures best."

Sherlock smiles, "I know. That's why I've summoned you here."

John's gaze seems to wander away inside the suite. He smiles and points at the table near presumably Sherlock's bed, "Is that... you're a chemist as well?"

"I'm learning things by myself. They don't teach you such things in school. Never to an Omega at least."

John smiles sympathetically, "You hate being an Omega, don't you?"

He looks at his chemical apparatus, immersed in deep thoughts. At last, he floats back to the surface, "Not really. Not anymore."

John smiles at him, kind and loving, "What do you do in there?"

Sherlock looks surprised when John asks him that question. No one had ever expressed any interest in his experiments. Mrs. Hudson... well, she just screamed when purple became blood-like crimson, or pink became colourless. She deemed it magic, instead of science, making him scoff heavily.

"Check this out," he motions John to come inside and shows him a colourless water-like liquid in a beaker, "Inhale it. Tell me what it is."

John takes a quick sniff and almost drops the beaker in surprise. His eyes widen as he looks up at the wonderful Omega in front of him. He has lost count of the number of qualities he has attributed to Sherlock.

"Beta scent," he gasps, "Wow! But why?"

"How do you think I go out when I go into Heats? It's the only odour that won't affect me."

John tries his best not to blush at that blunt question. He knows that Sherlock was going through an Estrus cycle right now. So much for aspiring to be a doctor.

He busies himself as Sherlock points out various reactions he knew, including a reagent that precipitated only haemoglobin, nothing else, his own discovery, eliciting various exclamations of surprise and appreciation from John. After sometime, they retreat back to the living room. Sherlock takes off his engagement ring and throws it away. It hits the floor with a dull thud, just like his marriage with Victor would have been.

"You just... threw that away," he remarks.

"Brilliant, John! Great observational skills."

John rolls his eyes, "Why?"

"This ring is a proof that I'm still tied to Victor. I can't have this sitting on my finger while you draw me."

John's eyes go wide when he hears it.

"I - I mean..." Sherlock shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips and a faint blush appearing on his sallow cheeks, "Not - only if you're comfortable with it, of course."

"With... drawing you?" he asks uncertainly. He feels like he's skirting around dangerous waters again.

"Drawing me," he confirms with a stiff nod, looking quite sure of himself. Even underneath all that nervousness, he's quite sure that John would not decline, "like one of your French girls."

He nods, smiling at him, "Alright. I'll sharpen my pencils-"

"Drawing _me_," Sherlock interrupts, looking down and licking his lips, his lean body taut with expectation, "_Only._ _Me_."

* * *

**E/N:**I know, instead of Sherlock wearing some jewel, he takes it off. Apologies if you didn't like that idea! :)

I didn't know what Daniel Marvin was like, so I made him a little like James I-don't-give-a-fuck Cameron.


	11. The Art Of Seduction

**A/N:** This took time, I know. This was just so... different, I've never written stuff like this, but then, I'm glad to start.

Also, this story isn't merely about Sherlock and John, this is also my own tribute to Titanic, and how John and Sherlock react to the disaster... so there'll be some scenes of the ship officers etc, juxtaposed with their story.

Can't wait to do the sinking!... Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that! I mean yeah, I'm totally gonna cry but... jeez, whatever!

Unbeta'd work means typos, typos, typos! Point 'em out if you find 'em please! :)

* * *

"Yeah... okay, I'll draw only you."

Sherlock looks down, exasperated. John was making this extremely difficult for him. He had hoped that he would understand in one sentence, but...

"Maybe I wasn't being clear. Draw me _like_ one of your French girls."

"I got..." John trails off, finally understanding the request, "Oh."

A monosyllable is all that manages to roll off his tongue. He knows the anatomy but he has never drawn nude men. Of course, he wouldn't. What sort of Alpha would flash his naked body for artistic purposes, even for a bit of quick money? He gapes at Sherlock for longer than deemed normal, his mind trying to picture the tension in the room if he agreed to it: the awkwardness, the constant rebellion inside him to surrender to his hormone-fuelled desires and take Sherlock then and there.

It would have been easier if he had not been in Heat. He could _feel_ the pheromones in the room, diffusing from Sherlock's skin into the atmosphere, and the whole idea started to look like an impossibility without forcing himself on him.

"John?" Sherlock touches him on his shoulder, looking a little concerned about the effect of his words on him.

He releases a lungful of breath that he doesn't realize that he had been holding till now. The room, however big, seems small and stuffier now. John swallows and manages to avert his eyes from Sherlock, only to meet them fleetingly.

"Yeah... I mean - you sure about this?" During Estrus remains unspoken but implied.

If any other person had asked this question and under any other circumstances, Sherlock would have flipped out in a second. However, upon seeing the surprised and alarmed look on John's face and the frantic pulse point in his neck, he decides to cut him some slack.

"As sure as I can be."

John had always managed to detach himself from subjects of his study, be it figures of nude women, or anything else. But... this was personal. It was Sherlock.

For one split second, a beam of light comes down from the Heavens and he draws in a deep breath giving him a curt nod of agreement. If Sherlock wanted him to do this, he certainly would, "I'll, ahem - make my preparations," he declares in a very much normal voice, "Should I turn-?"

"I'll be five minutes," says he, trying to be very mature, the sharp black cut of his leonine body stiff as he retreats to his room, closing the door behind him. For a minute, Sherlock remains stuck to the door, his heart pumping furiously at the thought of being nude in front of John, just within a few feet, just within the reach of his fingers.

It gives him a sort of a perverse thrill, not very unlike the elation he had felt at the bow or the short spell of excitement he had experienced while outrunning the seamen or even during that night in Colonel Moran's stateroom.

He reaches out, plucking at the top button of his shirt, willing but uncertain. Fingers brush against his bare skin, and he tries his best to control himself. John was right. There was no point doing this during Estrus. If he wanted a sketch, he should wait till it was over.

No, if John could do this, so could he.

Meanwhile, in the sitting room, John looks around at his surroundings, feeling a little intimidated by the proper fireplace, electric lighting and what not. He decides to light the fireplace. Sherlock would feel cold and he certainly wanted his model to be at his best.

He thinks about Sherlock's pose, how he would stand or sit, but finds himself painfully distracted by the thoughts of... John stops himself before he can think any further. He lays out his pencils like surgical tools, sharpening them to points, to perfection. Some blank sheets lie in front of him, waiting to be filled.

But what he's more nervous about was would he be able to do proper justice to Sherlock? The Omega was, as Mike had said very rightfully, a God among mortals, an answer to an artist's prayers, an Adonis in flesh. The blade slips through his fingers as he sharpens his pencils, narrowly avoiding a cut. John swallows and folds his legs. Everything had to be perfect.

Just then, the door opens, with Sherlock in the doorway, smirking playfully at him, or trying to, with nervousness quite clear on his face. John stops whatever he was doing as his attention is jerked upright at him. He is in his royal blue silk dressing gown, looking at him expectantly.

"Now, Mr. Watson," he growls in a sultry voice, causing John to shrink away, his whole face lighting up with surprise, "I expect you to be completely professional about my sketch. I'll not have you brooding over me for more than it is necessary. Is that in any way unclear?"

John swallows and shakes his head, terribly turned on by the mixture of the pheromones and the strict and dirty baritone voice. He realises that he's sweating badly, wondering if it's too late to go and douse the fire.

"Good." He steps back, parting the gown as the smile slowly disappears from his face, the true emotions of anticipation and apprehension come through and take dominance over his features. A creamy expanse of chest and skin is revealed and then the gown drops to the floor without any prior warning.

John is speechless.

He is so stricken that he wishes he were dead. It takes him every ounce of his self-restraint not to throw away the papers and the pencils and take him then and there. It's just hormones and the damning Estrus scent, he tells himself. He stares up at his face resolutely, not looking at anywhere below the waist.

Sherlock looks into his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching up at John's discomfort and yet eyes screaming 'what do you think of this?'. Upon seeing his amusement, John clears his throat a tad too loudly, and announces in a businesslike tone, "Standing or sitting: what do you think?"

His voice is crisp, but underneath Sherlock could perceive the desperation and the raw aching in his voice. John's face doesn't give his discomfort away at all. He tries his best to blink the arousal out of his eyes.

"The divan. I'll lie down."

"Not standing?" says he, thinking about a more dominating pose for Sherlock.

But he confirms his own choice with a slight bob of the head and settles down like a cat into a lazy, submissive position. John shifts into a more comfortable position and directs him how to place himself before he can find the correct pose to suit him.

Sherlock wanted to look like he was submitting to him. He tries not to smile at that thought. Not that thoughts come to him all that much anyway.

"Uh... fold your arm a bit, so your fingers rest against your cheek," he studies the pose before making some more amends, "and lower your head."

It's a wicked feeling in him, being obeyed like that by Sherlock. There's a fond smile on his lips at seeing his artist so absorbed in his work.

"Eyes to me," he points at his own, "Always on me," John's eyes narrow as he visualises the final sketch in his mind and whether it will be able to convey the proper message every time he saw it.

"Try to stay still."

He exhales a breath as he commits himself to the paper in front of him. John starts to sketch. He drops his pencil and Sherlock stifles a laugh. He clears his throat in embarrassment, but manages to speak properly, "No laughing."

His strict voice combined by his comically stricken look manage to make him laugh again, but as he sees John's stern eyes over the sketchpad, he relaxes himself with a sorry.

His fingers grip the nub of the charcoal a little harder than usual as he drags it along the page to create a vague outline of the divan. No props, he tells himself. This picture was about Sherlock, and how he saw him through his eyes.

He draws a couple more breaths before the nervousness starts to slowly wilt away and the artist comes through. He starts with the outline of his whole figure, like the study of some subject, where you start from the scratch and plunge deeper into it. He places Sherlock's head between his arms, just like the real life man was, who was watching him with keen scrutiny. He goes down and down till his neck and his chest are hazy outlines too. His fingers gently caress along the body, and thinking about the parallelism distracts him again, but he determinedly shoves his thoughts away.

It was otherworldly, drawing Sherlock, immortalising him on paper with charcoal. For the first time, John wishes he had learnt working with paints too.

The only props he allows is the pillows over which he settles. The rest is Sherlock. All of his attention and observation are focussed onto him, and Sherlock finds it dizzyingly erotic. He lets himself revel in the uncomplicated but powerful feeling of raw lust towards the man's fingers stroking his length gently, provocatively...

From the creamy, muscled chest, John moves down to his firm-looking stomach and the outlines of his torso and the symmetrical arches of the hipbones. One of the lamps flicker behind him, throwing shadows and lights all over Sherlock's body, creating an optical illusion to behold. It is the highest honour anyone could have bestowed upon him, to allow him to praise his physical beauty through the way he is best in.

The feeling of apprehension is still there, but unlike that of a lusting Alpha, it's more like the concern and the search for perfection in an artist. This was important to him, and more so, it was important to Sherlock.

His fingers go down to the his crotch, cocooned by a nest of dark curls. John wonders for a moment whether to leave the lower half in shadows later, or detail them like a map.

Sherlock, meanwhile notices where John's gaze rests and his heart starts pounding even stronger. It was like a competition between the two of them: who got up first, and they both were unwilling to back down. For one second, his imagination conjures the partial sketch John must have done on the paper now, just hazy outlines in the five minutes.

Five minutes and it already feels like an hour to him.

He thinks about John's warm fingers grazing along the lines and the contours of his body and he can't help but sigh quietly at the sweltering eroticism, at the thought of John's fingers grazing his whole body, at the thought of what they could do to him. But John is so absorbed in his work that he hardly notices it.

Sherlock remembers a dozen things about his body that were wrong and imperfect like his angular jawline, his toes and what not. A peek over at John's eyes tell him that the artist is doing nothing but worship, pouring all his adoration and reverence and love onto paper.

Most artists didn't bother with faces on the sketches that they made. The same was not the case with him. His sketches capture the very essence of being human and eternal at the same time. After the whole frame is outlined, he settles with detailing it. Despite his nervousness, he marks the paper with sure strokes, setting Sherlock across a black charcoal background, just like he sees him, mysterious, ethereal and untouchable, like blinding, brilliant light in total darkness.

He pays close attention to Sherlock's face, the way his tousled curls lie nonchalantly on his forehead, the way his piercing eyes shine with suppressed elation and fire, the way his lips tremble as he, not quite himself, fantasises John's fingers running up and down his whole nude portrait. Sherlock tries to cough the feeling away, only to receive a pained look from John. Every small sound is like a new-cut fingernail crawling over his spine, cutting into the soft flesh.

John inhales sharply and looks over his sketchpad at Sherlock, with the mindset of an Alpha hell bent on bonding far away in some deep corner of his mind. It's an image that the both of them will always keep fresh in their minds.

His fingers graze lovingly over Sherlock's face, smearing a little charcoal over his forehead to bring out the contrast between the light and the shadows falling across his face. It resembles him in many aspects and yet much different from what he really is. His cheekbones are carved out perfectly, and his eyes radiate the wild pagan spirit within and the feeling of omniscience comes out as he leaves his eyes greyish, outlining a fine detail such as his irises just so that their translucency comes through, even though they actually were completely dark and blown now.

John remembers the feeling when he had kissed Sherlock for the first time and how soft and supple his lips had felt, and shades them on the basis of that single memory. He masters the detail of his elegant fingers resting lazily against his dark curls, bothering as far as to even drawing the manicured nails. He draws some from his own memory, the way his fingers felt when they were intertwined in his on the bow rail.

Every now and then, Sherlock utters a purr, making the heat find its way back between John's legs. He wonders if Sherlock is doing that on purpose or if even he feels... turned on. His eyes trace their way back to his crotch and this time he can't help himself when he sees him half-hard. Sherlock follows his gaze halfway, only to flash a smirk at the man sitting across him. The air between them practically vibrates with excitement and arousal, laced with those tantalising pheromones and John can't help but inhale the treacherous scent again, the scent that was calling to him, rendering the Alpha in him howling in his mind within seconds. Calling for an Alpha's knot, calling for him.

"John," Sherlock's voice is breathless and strained, owing to the hormones that John's body secretes as a response to Sherlock's presence. His eyes beg to him to take him then and there, "Please," he whispers, pouring everything he feels into that one word and holding it up to John.

"The... portrait," he manages to wheeze, his nostrils flaring, his voice too husky for an artist.

Sherlock gives him the weakest of smiles and settles back into the position John had ordered him into before. He attacks the pale, slim column of his neck, fingers deftly shading through the tendons and the bobbing Adam's apple, drowning a part of it in mystifying darkness. He imagines his lips and his tongue grazing through and adds several other details accordingly, feeling the imaginary sensation of Sherlock's neck between his teeth as he makes his way down uninterrupted to the collarbone and the hollow of the suprasternal notch.

He looks up at him for reference again and Sherlock looks back determinedly. John's gaze itself feels like a caress against his skin, like innumerable minute points of electricity lighting up inside him. Sherlock has never felt so naked before, so vulnerable and yet like a demigod.

Then slowly, the minutiae of his chest come out into the image, the scanty chest hair, the marble white skin along with his shapely and toned arms. John watches his chest rise and fall in rapid succession and smiles to himself at the rush it creates within him to see Sherlock panting with effort.

"What?" he manages to croak.

John doesn't reply. It's all too beautiful, so intimate and he doesn't want to lose the opportunity to capture the rare sight by simply babbling away. He simply shakes his head as he darkens the nipples, teasing the firm-looking belly and the slight dip ending at his navel, spending an infinite amount of time there. There's not a blemish on his chest. It lies pale and marble-like in its expanse like still water.

Moving down, he shades the area between his legs slightly darker than the rest, just like the meagre amount of dark pubic hair and the shadows combine to make him look like.

"Don't be shy, John," Sherlock has forsaken all the breathlessness from before, and his voice is playful again. John chuckles, "I'm not the one with an erection here, am I?"

Sherlock bites his lip, smiling provocatively, and almost on the verge of blushing, "You do know how to charm poor innocent Omegas like me, don't you _Doctor_?"

John rolls his eyes and continues wordlessly. He draws a vague outline of his genitals, letting his fingers roam over them for sometime before proceeding downwards to his inner thighs and to his long legs, his endless and graceful long legs. They looked like they had never been out in the sun, just as white and ethereal as the rest of his body. They were muscled too, with veins and tendons standing out like whipcord. John details the toes as well, every single of them, and then gives Sherlock a winning smile, informing that they were nearing the end as he adds finishing touches.

The hair on his head becomes more curly and tousled and the sketch actually looks like it is radiating light. John adds one or two more trifling details, smudging some areas with his shirt instead of his blackened fingers, and darkening others coal black. He inspects his handiwork, satisfied and blows the remaining charcoal away. He fidgets in his chair as Sherlock finally sits up and cracks his knuckles. John lets out an involuntary groan quickly followed by an apologetic glance.

"What's the time?" he blurts out.

Sherlock pauses and then speaks, answering the real question, "You've been hunched over for an hour and thirty seven minutes, to be precise."

That long? John usually took a little over an hour to complete his drawings. He takes a final glance at the drawing and closes the sketchpad shut, keeping it on the side-table beside him. Sherlock stretches his full length once again and stands up, leaving John to wonder how a person with so much energy within him could stay still for that amount of period.

"May I see?"

John grins at him, not really caring that a very nude Sherlock Holmes stood in front of him, waiting to be...

He hands him the sketchpad, scratching the nape of his neck. The intense creative marathon has left him completely devoid of reticence and inhibitions. Sherlock scoops up his dressing gown on the way and drapes it over his shoulders, as he accepts the drawing from him. He opens it and gazes at it for several moments, running his eyes all over his counterpart on paper. John really has X-rayed his soul. He wonders if this was how he saw him, the bold, the free and the authoritative man lounged on the red brocade as opposed to the "indoor posh Omega" he had always been forced to be.

"Something wrong?" John inquires.

Sherlock simply smiles and hands it back to him, leaning over his shoulder, "Date it, John. I want to always remember this night."

He does: 4/14/1912. JW, and gives it back to him, "I want you to have it." _It's the only thing that I can give you._

Sherlock smiles, his face soft and tender as he plants a gentle kiss on John's lips, "Thank you." _You've given me everything I've ever wanted._

* * *

On the starboard side bridge, Captain Smith peers out at the blackness ahead of the ship. The Titanic glides across an unnatural sea, black and calm as a pool of oil. He watches the ship's lights mirrored almost perfectly against the black water. The sky is brilliant with stars. A meteor traces a bright line across the heavens.

Q Hitchins brings him a cup of hot tea with lemon. It steams in the bitter cold of the open bridge. Second Officer Lightoller joins him, staring out at the sheet of black glass that the Atlantic has become.

"Clear."

"Yes. I don't think I've ever seen such a flat calm, in 24 years at sea."

"Like a mill pond," he smiles, "Not a breath of wind."

Lightoller hesitates before placing his qualms with the captain, "It'll... make the bergs harder to see..." he looks at Smith pointedly, "with no breaking water at the base."

Creases appear on Smith's forehead as his expression tightens, upon reconsidering his Officer's words. He nods absentmindedly, stirring the tea. He looks like he's just about to order the ship to stop for the night in the wake of the repeated iceberg warnings as Mr. Andrews and the Holmeses come to his mind. His eyes are resolute as he remembers the part about 'Retiring with a bang', "Well, I'm off. Maintain speed and heading, Mr. Lightoller."

Lightoller looks a little concerned, but he cannot give orders against the captain, "Yes sir."

"And wake me, of course, if anything becomes in the slightest degree doubtful."

* * *

In the Wireless Room, sparks fill the gap of the Marconi instrument as Senior Wireless Operator Jack Phillips rapidly keys out a message. Junior Operator Bride looks through the huge stack of outgoing messages swamping them.

"Look at this one," says Bride, slapping the piece of paper down, "he wants his private train to meet him. Bloody idiots! We'll be up all night on this lot!"

Meanwhile, Phillips starts to receive an incoming message from a nearby ship, the Leyland freighter S.S. Californian, which jams his outgoing signal. At such close range, the beeps are deafening.

"Christ! It's that idiot on the Californian," says he cursing, as he furiously keys a rebuke.

* * *

In the Wireless shack on the S.S. Californian, the ship nearest to Titanic at the moment, Wireless Operator Cyril Evans pulls his earphone off his ear as the Titanic's spark deafens him. He translates the message for Third Officer Groves.

"Stupid bastard," he curses, "I try to warn him about the ice, and he says 'Keep out. Shut up. I'm working Cape Race.' "

Groves heaves an exasperated sigh, "Now what's he sending?"

" 'No seasickness' ," he recites the routed greetings and messages that the passengers on Titanic were sending through to Cape Race to all of America, " 'Poker business good. Al'. Well that's it for me. I'm shuttin' down!"

As Evans wearily switches off his generator, Groves goes out on deck watching with ever-alert eyes as the ship is stopped fifty yards from the edge of a field packed with ice and icebergs stretching as far as the eye can see.

* * *

John feels the wind attack his skin cruelly as he leans out of the windows of the promenade, staring into darkness, wondering where they were exactly. When the cold becomes too much for him, he walks inside, rubbing his palms together to generate some friction.

"What are you doing?" says he as Sherlock, now dressed in only a shirt and trousers, locks the sketchbook away and rolls a piece of paper, inserting it into his engagement ring. He holds it up for John to see.

"First useful purpose it has served."

"For what?"

" 'Keep this as a reminder of my utmost _love_ for you, _my darling _' ," he recites, " 'Not all Alphas jump at the first Omega in Heat.' " He tucks it away into a safe and closes it with a clunk.

There are no words to express how proud John feels of himself when Sherlock says those words. He simply smiles, "What now?"

"Whatever we want it to be," Sherlock leans in and presses his mouth to John's, their tongues melting together instantly, drawing a moan from the Alpha's throat as he feels Sherlock's tongue entwining with his. John's fingers, which had been caressing only Sherlock's sketch till now, reach out to trace Sherlock's body, from the curls of his hair to his neck and to the strong sweep of his shoulders. He breaks away breathlessly as he pins Sherlock to a wall, grazing his mouth and his tongue hungrily over the skin, tasting those pheromones, if they even had a taste. At this point, they were salty and distinctively Sherlock.

Sherlock throws his head back, exposing his neck to John, almost whimpering at his touch as he pins his head to his neck, a shiver running through his spine. A strangled moan escapes his lips as John softly bites into his skin and returns to his lips. There's a wicked pleasure in surrendering to John in the same cabin where Victor had attempted to take him the previous day.

They hear a key turn in the lock and Sherlock and John break apart, completely flushed and panting, probably wondering why someone always gatecrashed into them while they made out.

"Gregson," Sherlock whispers, tugging at John's hand, "We have to move."

* * *

**E/N:** I hope I didn't do a bad work of this. I sort of know the feeling that Rose had had because there was this one time when I was in 7th grade and my first crush had sketched me out (not nude, of course). It was sort of a class assignment that we sketch out our classmates, 14 in total.

I had completed mine, so this teacher made me sit as a model and he was there, right in front of me, smirking up at me and trying to make me laugh. I pointed out that his sketch would go wrong if he did that (he was also a very good artist), and so he stopped.

Now, the assembly was still going on downstairs and then all of a sudden, the national anthem blared out and we all gotta stand. I remember him begging me not to move, but the teacher was on one side and he was on the other and I just sort of half-stood! LOL I still remember the priceless look on his face, his anguish that the sketch was gonna go all wrong!

As for the sketch, I don't know what happened to it... I forgot to ask him, but I do remember posing for him and it's such a wonderful feeling to be sketched by someone you like.

And, then I got to see Titanic, I was the last of my friends to see the movie, and then when this nude portrait scene arrives and the look on Jack's face, all I can remember is him sketching me and the look in his eyes. It's a wonderful feeling to have his eyes notice all the small details about you and it's sort of exhilarating and you feel so self-conscious all the time. To tell the truth, I'd love to pose for him again, if I ever got the opportunity! 3

Sorry, I'm rambling, I'll just shut up now! x


	12. The Iceman Cometh

**Summary: **Just John and Sherlock being delightfully cute and horny kids and Mycroft and Victor being assholes and plotting against them.

* * *

**A/N:** I know that my version of John is too cheerful and adventurous, but let me remind you that he is still 20 years old and not the war hero PTSD fella. I'm trying to explore what he must have been before he went off to war and when he still had dreams, and of course I take the inspiration from Martin himself.

Sorry if you were thrown off by the S.S. Californian part in the previous chapter. This was one of the important things that Cameron had not put in his film, so I decided to add it.

* * *

John nods in understanding as Sherlock leads him silently through the bedrooms. Gregson enters by the sitting room door. The distracting scent of the pheromones blinds him for a moment, giving them a head start. He knows that Sherlock was there. He recognises the scent from the day before. He noiselessly moves through Victor's room towards Sherlock's like a bloodhound and keeps a steady grip on his revolver.

"Damn Estrus!" Sherlock hisses as he hears Gregson closing in on them, following his scent, "Come on!"

Sherlock and John come out of the stateroom, closing the door as quietly as possible. He leads him quickly along the corridor toward the B deck foyer, grinning at one another at their narrow escape. They are halfway across the open space when the sitting room door opens in the corridor and Gregson comes out. The valet sees John with Sherlock and hustles after them.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock and John resist every reflex to look back upon their shoulder. But when the valet does not seem to give up his pursuit, Sherlock grabs his hand before John can realise what was happening and they break into a run.

"Come on, John!"

They shoot across the Grand Staircase for the second time, surprising the few ladies and gentlemen about. Sherlock leads him past the stairs to the bank of elevators. They run into one, shocking the hell out of the Operator. A couple emerging duck out of their way frantically as they crash inside.

"Take us down. Quickly, quickly, you moron!" Sherlock cries, not deserting his delightful use of language even during emergencies.

"E Deck!" John cries in harmony.

The Operator scrambles to comply. John even helps him close the steel gate. Victor's valet runs up panting as the lift starts to descend. He slams one hand on the bars of the gate. Sherlock sticks out the finger at him and laughs as Gregson disappears above. The Operator gapes at him as John giggles.

"You're insane!" He declares, waving a dismissive hand towards the operator.

Sherlock gives him a smile that is cute and wicked at the same time, "You're just getting that now?"

Gregson emerges from another lift and runs to the one John and Sherlock were in. The Operator is just closing the gate to go back up. Gregson runs around the bank of elevators and scans the foyer... no John and Sherlock. He tries the stairs going down to F Deck.

Meanwhile, John and Sherlock hasten through the F Deck corridors, stumbling, laughing as they bump into stewards, postmen, maids and other people. John bumps into a steward wheeling a whole load of cutlery, smashing them to pieces.

"Oi! Watch out where you're going!" The steward calls after the retreating figures, "That's White Star Line property!"

"Call for Mycroft Holmes, suite number B-56!" Sherlock yells, "He'll refund it threefold for you!"

They stop for some time somewhere near the fan rooms, a functional space, with access to a number of machine spaces, fan rooms, boiler uptakes etc.

"What're we gonna do now?"

Sherlock looks around him, "Fool him. Run the old man around. At any rate, I'm enjoying this immensely!"

John breaks into undignified giggles, "Are you sure he's only a valet, this fella?"

"He's an ex-Pinkerton," Sherlock pants, "Victor's father hired him to keep him out of trouble... to make sure he always got back to the hotel with his wallet and watch intact, after some crawl through the, uh... less reputable parts of town..."

"Like we're doing right now- uh oh!"

Gregson has spotted them from a cross-corridor nearby. He charges toward them, adjusting his tie. John and Sherlock run around a corner into a blind alley. There is one door, marked Crew Only, and Sherlock flings it open, pushing John into it.

They enter a room roaring with the sounds of engines, with no way out but a ladder going down into the bowels of the ship. John latches the deadbolt on the door, and Gregson slams against it a moment later. Sherlock grins at John, pointing to the ladder, from which hot embers arise, "How far, do you think?" he yells over the noise.

John returns it, "Let's find out."

Sherlock's eyes light up with the promise of adventure yet his tone comes across as warning, "Could be dangerous."

But John simply backs away, letting Sherlock go first, "After you, m'lord."

* * *

John and Sherlock come down the escape ladder, scaling the drop of three feet, and look around in amazement. It is like a vision of hell itself, with the roaring furnaces and black figures moving in the smoky glow. An irresistible thrill of excitement passes through Sherlock's spine as he recognises it, "Boiler rooms!" he yells, "I've always wanted to come down here!"

"More coal for number one, mate!"

The stokers seem to work with the rhythm of something undefined yet instinctively recognisable as they hurl coal into the roaring furnaces. The "black gang" are covered with sweat and coal dust, their muscles working like part of the machinery as they toil in the hellish glow.

John and Sherlock are both sweating profusely, with the hot blast of sweltering air blowing in their faces, feeling like the sting on an insect. The heat makes them shiver. Sherlock turns around to see the little steam pressure dials. Full speed, he gathers. The iceberg warning from the morning hits him but all his thoughts are lost over the din.

"That way!" Sherlock yells, "We're somewhere in the middle. The engines are towards the stern, and I always wanted to see them-"

"Hey!"

They turn around to see one of the stokers scowling darkly at them, "What are you two doin' down 'ere?" John pulls Sherlock away in the opposite direction as they break into a run again towards the front part of the ship instead, completely disregarding the man.

"You shouldn't be down here!" He yells after them, baffled at Sherlock's quite respectable and very first class attire, "It could be dangerous! Oi!"

They run the length of the boiler room, dodging stunned stokers, and trimmers with their wheelbarrows of coal. They run through the open watertight door into another boiler room. John pulls him through the fiercely hot alley between two boilers and they wind up in the dark, out of sight of the working crew. Watching from the shadows, they see the stokers working in the hellish glow, shovelling coal into the insatiable maws of the furnaces. The whole place thunders with the roar of the fires.

"Carry on!" Sherlock yells as the men gape at the two of them running about just for the hell of it, "We're just being stupid... well, John's being stupid!" says he, receiving a slap across his back from him, "But you're all doing a great job!"

They all watch baffled as the couple darts past everyone, not having enough processing to register that there's an Unbonded Omega in Heat amongst them. One of them even lets go of the handle of the wheelbarrow as he watches the two dashing about like children. It trips over and lands on the feet of another, almost crushing his toes.

"Ow, you bastard!"

John and Sherlock escape into giggles. "Own it, lads!" says John, "High praise from the one and only Sherlock Holmes!"

* * *

In the First Class smoking room, amid unparalled luxury, Mycroft sits at a card game, sipping brandy. Victor mingles effortlessly with everyone, like always. But this time, his tension is quite evident as he keeps checking his pocket watch all the time. Mycroft gives him a slight nudge as Gregson returns to them.

"Will you excuse us, gentlemen?" says he, as the two of them rise and go to him. Gregson doesn't wait to submit his report.

"He was with him," Mycroft and Victor know very well who this 'him' was, "In your stateroom."

Victor's jaw muscles clench at this noticeably as he grits his teeth. Mycroft notices this and takes charge of the situation. He had underestimated John.

"What do you mean 'was'? Where are they now?"

Gregson looks down, feeling very small, "Outran me."

Mycroft closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, "Please fetch Andrea to our suite, Mr. Gregson. She'll be in the dining saloon probably. I'm sure Victor and I can find our way back."

He gives him and his employer a curt nod and walks away.

"We should probably check if something has been stolen."

Victor notes Mycroft's bland but determined tone and simply nods as they walk out of the smoking parlour and to the Grand Staircase.

Mycroft cannot describe how betrayed he feels upon hearing Sherlock's treachery. The silence between them is tense, like the sword of Damocles hanging upon them. At this point, he doesn't care about anything. He just wants his brother back, safe and sound and with his virtue intact.

Upon entering the stateroom, Victor almost collapses owing to the incredibly strong odour of pheromones still persisting in the air. It is nothing like he has ever sensed before. His mind, his defences are dissolved for a moment as he feels his throat constricted by the feeling. Mycroft, being a family Alpha, isn't much affected, but it is clear from his face that it is strong even for him. He goes and throws open all the doors for the suffocation to diffuse away.

Victor grinds his teeth together. The scent from yesterday was not even a fraction of this. Mycroft goes into the inner rooms, thinking the worst, looking for any signs of incriminating evidence. He doesn't find any.

"Check your safe," says he as he helps the incapacitated Victor to his feet. Andrea and Gregson also arrive at this point of time.

Victor goes and dials in the combination. Inside, he finds John's sketchpad and the note enclosed by the engagement ring. The rest of the party peek over as he stares at the drawing of Sherlock, his face clenching with fury. Andrea and Gregson look away, slightly embarrassed as Victor crumples the note, then takes the drawing in both hands as if to rip it in half. Sherlock has finally got to him, to his breaking point. He tenses to do it, then stops himself as Mycroft places his palms on his hand gently, restraining him.

"I have a better idea."

* * *

The furnaces roar, silhouetting the glistening stokers. John and Sherlock are now making their way back through the darkness, still running as far as their feet can carry them. Suddenly John stops and grabs Sherlock's elbow, pulling him closer, gasping for air. Sherlock leans down to kiss him just as John opens his mouth. He smiles before closing the distance, making the tone of the kiss as tentative as he always did. He gently pushes him till Sherlock's back is against the wall. He straddles his waist as he kisses him ever so gently and carefully, like he was afraid, even terrified to hurt him. But Sherlock shows no sign of discomfort other than the fact that he is incredibly aroused.

Sherlock urges him forward, clutching his shoulders and running his fingers through his sweaty hair as John slowly plies his mouth open, not able to control any longer, slowly snaking his tongue inside.

"J-ohn..." he moans softly, rolling his hips forward against his without being fully conscious of it, his knees giving away at the feel of their tongues mingling together, sending sparks and shivers down his spine.

Sherlock has never felt anything like this, nothing so arousing and so overwhelming. To feel John straining through his trousers, and to think that it was for him, and when John takes his lower lips between his teeth and bites gently, while running his tongue on the inside of his bottom lip, he completely loses it, shuddering violently and forcing him forward, tightening his grip on the nape of his neck.

"John," he moans, triggering goose bumps all over his body.

But it's nothing compared to the feeling of John's mouth travelling away, his lips trailing over his cheekbones and to his earlobe. Sherlock lets out a shuddery gasp as his eyes widen in surprise, causing John to almost snort into his neck. He tastes the sweat trickling down from John's forehead as his knees give away for real this time and he slides down to the floor, collapsing under the feeling of John's tingling breath. His breath picks up again, worse than it has ever been as he grabs a handful of John's blonde hair. His heart jumps in and out of his chest as he feels John's grip on his waist tighten.

"God!" John gasps as Sherlock pushes him away. He looks confused at his remarkably calm expression in the face of so much heat, both inside and outside. Sherlock leans forward, stealing a quick kiss.

"Not here," he pants, the only indication that he too was turned on, "I believe you have more sense than to deflower me in the Boiler rooms, Mr. Watson!"

John turns an extremely fatal shade of crimson, if that was even possible, at Sherlock's bold suggestion, "God, Sherlock! You can't kiss me like that and just push me away!"

Even in the noise and the din, footsteps are discernible. All he needs is a look and they both scurry off and out of there, not wanting to be spotted by any of the stokers.

* * *

Victor stares at the younger Alpha ridiculously, "What the hell is this, Mycroft? What have you to say for yourself and your disreputable trollop of a brother?"

"My dear Victor," Mycroft takes the drawing from him and places it carefully inside the sketchpad, the veins in his forehead standing out clearly when Victor calls his brother a 'disreputable trollop', "Sit down in one of the chairs in the promenade for a moment and let the air around you clear away. You are not in a position to talk-"

"Not in a position to TALK?! Of course I'm not, Mycroft! Your brother - _my fiancée_ - just ran away with a steerage rat, damn it!" He kicks a chair in anger and then restrains himself, breathing out his words, "I will not have this - wanton Omega," he almost spits it, "as my mate."

Mycroft's heart stops right there. He sucks in a breath and his anger at the older Alpha, wanting to retaliate with dissolving the whole engagement itself, accusing him of trying to rape his brother, but he tries to calm himself down anyway, speaking in the only language Victor could understand, "You know I would not deal dishonestly with you, Victor. I assure you that nothing has happened, or will happen. Watson is a gentleman-"

"So-so... you're standing up for him, now?" Victor hisses, taking full advantage of his height, his eyes paranoid and psychotic, his carefully cultivated composed self entirely forgotten to fury, "You're taunting me like he did? He's in Heat, Mycroft! Even God cannot stop an Alpha from taking an Omega in Heat..."

For the first time, Mycroft realises how wrong Victor is. He has seen the evidence for himself. Nothing had happened in there. And if one considered Sherlock, if anything had to happen, it would have been in Victor's stateroom. He just wants him back. Whether back with Victor or not is now out of the equation as he slowly sees what his brother had to deal with till now. He regrets his decision to let Victor and Sherlock stay in the same stateroom and the consequences thereafter. However, he hardens his heart and does what **he** thinks is best for his brother.

"The only way to get Sherlock back," says he with a hard heart, knowing perfectly well that this could break his brother, "is to break his trust in that man... Andrea dear, please get me the list for the Third Class passengers. And take him," he points to Gregson, "a good gun always comes in handy."

"Yes, sir." A click of heels and she's gone with Victor's valet.

"What are you doing?"

Mycroft flashes a false smirk at him, "What I do for a livelihood."

Victor calms down as his scheming mind comes into foreground, looking thoughtful, "I have this," he pulls out Sherlock's 12 carat ring and shows it to Mycroft, "might help." But Mycroft simply waves it away.

"You underestimate my brother, Victor. He'll fall to no such thing. He'll know that we've put it in Watson's pocket, if that's what you're suggesting."

"Then?"

"You just watch," says he, his eyes icy and cold, his voice transforming into a growl, "I'll have him back."

Andrea returns after some twenty minutes, the list tucked under Mr. Gregson's arms. He hands it to Mycroft, who after some moments of going through the names frowns in confusion.

"His... Watson's name isn't there," Victor stammers out, "he's a stowaway, travelling without ticket..."

"Give him over to the master-at-arms?" Gregson suggests.

"Of course his name isn't there!" Mycroft points out, "he said that he had won his ticket in card games. He'd be under some other name. We'll have to find which one. Andrea dear," he rose again, "kindly get me the health inspection log entries."

She nods and leaves without a single question, utmost faith in Mycroft's plans. Meanwhile, Victor frowns, not being able to understand what Mycroft was trying to achieve by finding John's alias name, "What are you planning to do, Mycroft? What else, I mean? If we give him away-"

"He'll simply go and find him!" Mycroft snaps irritably, making the older Alpha cringe, "The trust needs to be broken if they have to be separated," he gazes around at one of the smaller cushions lying on the divan. He picks it up, patting it slightly, "This will help immensely."

* * *

John and Sherlock enter and run laughing between the rows of stacked cargo covered in nets. John takes his coat off and deposits it on Sherlock's shoulders, hugging himself against the cold after the dripping heat of the boiler room. Sherlock wants to return it back after a cutting retort of him being as strong as a horse, but he doesn't as John's fingers wrap around his. Anyway, he wasn't going to need that, was he?

"Wow!" says he in amazement looking all around, "there's all important stuff here, isn't it?"

"Furniture," Sherlock agrees, forgotten that some of it belong to Victor as well, "Automobiles, heavy things."

Sherlock pulls him over against one of the wooden cargo boxes, smiling enticingly as he sits on it, John with settling between his legs. The surface is almost as wide as a bed. John puts an arm around his waist, loving and protective as Sherlock grabs the collar of his shirt and guides him towards him, settling against a box on top of the surface, looking into his eyes with such an imploring, pleading stare. It is the moment of truth and they both know it. John licks his lips as Sherlock's gaze stops on them. He strokes Sherlock's face, cherishing him with everything that he has. His hand rests on his cheek, his eyes wide and adoring.

Sherlock's hand rests on that of John's, running his fingertips over the knuckles, the rough skin. He wants to explore it all, memorise the patterns of his callosities. He presses the briefest of kisses to it, not breaking his eye-contact with him. He wants to look away and close his eyes, but he does not, in the fear the he would miss something precious. Every moment was so prized, so irreplaceable.

John looks down and raises Sherlock's hand to his lips, kissing the back of his fingers a little longer than a normal gentleman would. A small sound escapes Sherlock's lips, making John chuckle softly.

"What?" he asks breathlessly, covering up his embarrassment.

"Did that tickle?"

"Why should it?" he demands stubbornly, eliciting silent spells of laughter from John, "Hunting for compliments again? How very pedestrian!"

"You're only inviting me for a challenge, love," says he and kisses his palm this time, with tongue attacking his flesh tenderly. Sherlock does not make a single noise as every nerve tingles within him, making him want to seize him and press his lips to his. But he resists, always the rebellious one at heart; he does not want John to have his way. John only smirks at him from under heavy eyelids as he laps again, taking the soft flesh between his teeth for an electrifying moment. He barely notices the gooseflesh rising on his forearms.

Sherlock's breath hitches, his pulse rate has already reached its limit. It couldn't be any faster than it already was. John continues attacking his flesh with teeth and tongue while trailing his fingers over his hand, the veins, the tendons, the spaces between the fingers. Sherlock knew very well about what happened between an Alpha and an Omega, he had been taught all that back when his gender was determined. All the knowledge has never prepared him for this, the feeling of truly being with someone else, the feeling of stimulation, desire and want and need. He bites back a soft moan as he sees the arousal in John's eyes and when he registers the Alpha muskiness saturating the whole room. John's face is flushed as he finishes with a wet kiss on his fingertips. There's virtually no sign of blue in his eyes as he stammers out, "Well, that... was eventful."

By this time, both of them are half-panting and half-laughing at John's words. Their palms meet again, their fingertips gently touching and intertwining. The smile disappears from Sherlock's face.

"You nervous?" John asks. The tension is palpable and almost overflowing. How could Sherlock be nervous? It was meant to be.

"Au contraire, mon cher," He attempts to joke as leans forward and plants a chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. His voice is uncertain and yet so sure, "Make love to me, John."

* * *

**E/N: **Next chapter will take some time, probably after 28th of the month because my exams finish on that date, and I'm starting to realise that I have to start studying. x

I'm deleting the sex scene from here because of moderators here on . However I might do it on AO3, seeing as they allow explicit.


	13. Moment Of Truth

**I'm back! And no, my exams aren't over yet.**

**Warnings:**** Sex, in (almost) graphic detail. Yeah I'm posting the sex scene, seeing as it isn't that much of smut**

**Also, this is the first time I'm writing a sex scene. So please, PLEASE don't be harsh on me. I welcome constructive criticism, but please don't be harsh. Fingers crossed that you like it!**

**FYI, this is NOT smut! I figured that since we all know what happens during sex, I might as well not bore you with the details. God, I found this chapter so difficult. It's not smut that I can write and get away with. I wish it could've been, but then it would've destroyed whatever I've written till now. This is actually the hardest chapter I've written till now.**

**But this is in graphic detail.**

**Okay, I'm just realizing that my words are sort of contradicting... I don't really know what this is, so I'm leaving it to your discretion :)**

**Typos might be there, please point them out if you find them.**

* * *

J

John looks into his eyes, his breath stuck in his chest as Sherlock places his hand over where his heart is, beating frantically, wanting to transfer itself into John's hands and his custody. John takes one final look at him before leaning toward him and making their lips meet, gentle and hesitant as always, as he steers them into building passion. Sherlock's fingers thread themselves in his sandy hair as John's reach out to unbutton his shirt, taking care of the buttons coming apart, rather than tearing at it, like an object of worship and reverence.

Suddenly, John finds himself closer to Sherlock than he has ever been as his shirt is off too, pressing chest to chest. He can feel John, not just the feeling of being pressed together in the most intimate way till now, but with all that he is. Sherlock cannot help but smile at how good his body feels against him. It should've been alien, and terrifying like the potential of their liaison had felt for the first time. But it doesn't; it's as though the arousal consumes and overpowers everything.

There's still charcoal deposit in John's nails and on his fingers, he realises as he runs them along his chest. His touches are like fire sweeping across Sherlock's skin, burning trails of flames wherever his fingers manage to drift, the charcoal depositing soot as they travel along his whole body from head to toe, drawing the icy chill of the rest of his skin into sharp relief. John kisses him as if he wants to steal the very breath from his lungs and leave him panting and gasping for oxygen he would never find. Sherlock's chest rises and falls rapidly, every breath feels like the last one, every heartbeat feels like an explosion. The combined daze of the Estrus and the utter passion and the stormof their relationship lends an even more fiery aspect to what they are about to do. John withdraws his lips from his and goes down, the damp and warm mouth attacking his neck, his tendons, intoxicating him with the scent as he feels Sherlock's fingers brush against his burgeoning arousal.

A whimper in the otherwise silent room followed by a bite into his flesh as John tries to hush himself. Sherlock tosses his head back against the hard cargo boxes as John climbs on top of him, grinding their crotches together. Many a time, John feels like he cannot do this. This is too intense. And if this classified as intense, he had no idea what knotting Sherlock would feel like. But thought doesn't stop his tongue from travelling southward, kissing his whole body in the process and marking a salacious path with his wet tongue and his trembling lips.

"John..."

The muffled exhale is too much for John as he raises one hand to cup the back of his head, his other arm going around his waist as he clings to Sherlock, returning to his lips again to draw that moan from him and feel him quake with pleasure underneath. He inhales deeply, as if wanting to drown himself in the pheromones, nose nudging in his curls as he presses soft patient kisses to the neck he has only explored with charcoal before. John knows how impatient Sherlock is, and he smiles at the thought of how restless he must be making him now as his tongue comes out and touches the space right behind the lobe.

Sherlock shivers beneath him, running his hands all over John's back, melting at the hypnotising something that John was doing to him. At this point, all thoughts are beyond him. His fingers reach out to unfasten the flies of his trousers, brushing his fingers teasingly against his clothed erection as if wanting to punish him for the agonizingly slow ordeal John puts him through.

John buries his sound into the hollow between his neck and his shoulder, and raises himself to look into his eyes again, hating every second of the loss of contact. Sherlock's eyes burn with an intensity he has never seen before, the translucency of his eyes gone and replaced by a dark orb of lust as he pulls him down to join their lips with bruising force. John had meant to be tender when he realised that this was where it had been going, that this was going to be inevitable, but Sherlock makes it clear that he wishes no gentleness, none of that 'fly me to the stars' stuff. He wants directness, intensity. He wants to be broken and then mended, over and over again. He wants John to be reckless as a drunkard with a shattered bottle, as dangerous as its jagged edges.

That single gesture is enough to push John over the edge as his trousers come off, the Alpha rage and lust combining to consume him. He tears at Sherlock's trousers and his boxers, drinking in the glorious man underneath him: the faint glow of his skin, his flushed face and chest, the clumps of his hair standing on end in wild disarray, or else plastered against his forehead and temples, and the deliciously irregular breath, it's all so different from the man who had posed for him a couple of hours ago. If there had been a mirror, Sherlock would not have recognised himself. The sound of the waves breaking against the ship fade into a low buzz as all he can hear is Sherlock's breath and his own blood singing in his ears. John wishes he could have captured this moment as well in his sketches.

"Do it," Sherlock pants, his voice an animalistic growl as his fingers wrap around him, making John's knees buckle, "Just... do... it!"

All thoughts flown from his mind, John leans in and kisses him deeply, opening his mouth instinctively against his, and snaking his tongue in, entwining it with his, feeling their naked bodies pressed together, smelling of sweat and pheromones. His arms reach out to grab his hips as he places Sherlock's legs over his shoulders. He wants to see his face all the time. John couldn't afford to miss out on anything that flickers on his face.

The lack of protection doesn't even cross their minds as John takes a breath to steady himself, before urging his legs a little apart. He wants to tell him how beautiful and how perfect he looks, beneath him, flushed and panting and, although Sherlock would never agree about it, needy. A growl of impatience and a snarl is all John gets for watching him like that.

Slowly, he inserts a finger inside of him, biting his lip from the sensation of the taut muscle around him. Sherlock inhales sharply, fumbling around for anything, anything at all, finally managing to pull at some ropes tying the cargo together. Another finger and John doesn't seem to want to stop. Sherlock looks up at the Alpha above him, his Alpha as his face twists into the most extraordinary of contortions upon feeling the pain, his body jerking at its intensity. John stops almost immediately, afraid to have hurt him, but this one time he would consent to hurt, and scream, at his touch. John slowly scissors his fingers inside him, watching him writhe and twist below him as he slowly pushes himself on his entrance and slowly sinks into him.

Sherlock had expected the pain, when it came. But he gasps at its sharpness; it's not like any pain he has felt before. It is dizzying, dark and terrifyingly welcome, feeling John inside him, feeling that unbelievable amount of heat radiating from him as he slowly pushes inside of him, his entire body engulfed in John's fire

"John!" he lets out another shuddery exhale, placing his hands on his waist and tossing his head back. He scratches his body with nails, as if fighting him. His thrusts become more powerful, more intense as Sherlock keeps fighting tooth and nail. John can make him drunk; and every time his eyes flashes into his, he forsakes breathing. Flames seem to lick their way through his very veins, heating him from the inside until he is fairly certain that he is going to die if they don't stop.

And they don't. John slowly becomes harsher, merciless, speechless at the sensation of the overwhelming array of pheromones saturating the air and the stirrings inside him. It's almost suffocating, as he feels his vision slowly going blind. Leaning forward, he urges Sherlock toward him until their lips join and crush against each other, driving away the pain as Sherlock moves with him, still unable to find the rhythm. Sherlock doesn't blame him, in fact he likes the unpredictability of his movements. He likes being surprised.

"John!" He groans into his mouth, as John realises what was happening. He cannot help but smile against his skin as he lets his baser instincts take over.

"Harder!" Sherlock's voice transmutes into a snarl, the pain becoming a warmth that only could grow. Warmth that slowly morphs into pleasure.

"Sherlock!" John manages to groan as he feels the edges on Bonding closing in upon them for the first time. Sherlock bites into him, at his lips as John feels the scrape of broken nails. That is the last conscious thought that deserts his mind, and his own fury takes hold of him, rage and a lust that comes on him like black thunder on a mountain, a cloud that hides all from him and him from all. He plunges in harder, deeper, the animal in him coming out.

"John!" Is all Sherlock can call out, as he feels the wave of Bonding upon them too. The feeling grows. Grows, and stops his breath. And takes his breath and his pain and his mind away from his body, so that there is nothing but his body, and the light and fire they were making together.

But it is not enough. John wants more, more, more. After all, there is only a body to make love to, no matter how beautiful. But it just isn't enough to express all that is cooped inside him. He can make that heart beat stronger than thunder, and yet he cannot reach out to it. Every inch of his body is in contact with every inch of Sherlock, but John wishes to reach out to all that he loves more than just his physical form. John wishes desperately that for one night, just for this one night, let them be just souls, bathing and basking in whatever they had for each other, just for one night if they could only reach out for each other till eternity, then maybe he could have everything all at once. Then maybe, he could have that madness, that heart, that eternal and pure soul that belonged to Sherlock.

John bites down on Sherlock's collarbone harshly, as if he wants to draw blood, as if he wants to devour him and let himself be devoured by the sensations of Bonding. He wants to possess his soul, consume him entirely in his fire, but then it seems like he cannot possess him without losing his own.

"JOHNN!" Sherlock screams, drowning the whole ship in that shriek as he feels his impending orgasm coming to him. He pins John's head to his shoulder, wanting him to bite deeper, mark him as his, as his Bonded for the whole world to see. He kisses John's forehead as he grabs chunks of his sandy hair, trying to tear them apart, trying to tear him apart till they merged into one form, tangled irreversibly in one another. Sherlock could not bear it any longer and yet he wants this to go on, for the whole night, for the whole of his life, he wants John to keep making love to him for every waking moment, for every moment he lived and then beyond. His thrusts became more powerful, more intense. Not for one moment does it strike Sherlock that John is about to seed him, and by the next morning, he would indeed bear his child.

He is surprised that he welcomes that idea, the idea of the perfection of their child, the proof of their union, apart from the powerful, invisible seam that they would feel whenever they would be away from each other.

"Harder!" he grunts, his voice destructive and lethal as he feels John hitting his prostrate aggressively. John's instincts can do nothing but comply; his Omega was asking him for more.

His Omega.

The thought itself sends John almost tumbling over the edge, almost pulling Sherlock down with him. He controls himself. He was going to come after Sherlock, like he was always supposed to.

"Look... into... my... eyes..." Sherlock manages to pant. John does, not looking away for a single moment, even when the strain becomes too much for him, he stares into those glassy orbs of Sherlock, still pushing inside and pulling out of him.

He can no longer hear the cargo slamming against the wall. He can no longer hear his own voice, or the blood rushing through him or Sherlock's voice calling for him, so consumed he is by the pleasure riding out in waves, clashing the fantasy with reality. He doesn't know whether he is saying anything. He doesn't even know that stewards are closing in upon them. All he knows that Sherlock and he were bonding, and that he was looking into Sherlock's eyes, his arms around Sherlock's legs. He could sell his soul to him if he asked for it, only he wouldn't. Sherlock had him already. All he feels is that Sherlock is close, tethering on the edge, and he gives a final thrust into him.

"JOHNN!" He screams, repeatedly banging his head against the wall, not caring that it can split apart as he comes. John lets go of himself and allows himself to come some moments after Sherlock has, his eyes desperate, his mouth slightly ajar as he seeds him. He doesn't close his eyes, he forces them to stay open, afraid to miss those rare moments of emotion flickering through him.

They remain like that for some moments, panting, wheezing, smiling at what they have done. Then John pulls out of him and the only thing Sherlock can think of is John's warm and sweaty weight above him, glowing and strong and ever so gentle, ever so loving as he leans down to kiss him tenderly. Sherlock would have told him that he loved him had he not been feeling so spent. He can already feel that link between them, the invisible and everlasting Bond between them.

"Six," Sherlock declares all of a sudden, nuzzling his nose in John's hair, his eyes scanning the side of his face. And before John can frown in confusion, he explains himself with a darker, endearing flush of his cheeks, "Times I said your name."

John flushes just as dark as he touches his nose and his mouth, his other hand feeling for his steady heartbeat, "I wish we could lay here forever."

Sherlock wishes too, to stay in John's arms forever like that, against the hard surface, basking in his attention and love. But he instead asks, "Are you alright?"

But before John can answer, there's a noise as the door to the cargo hold is forced open. The stewards have reached them. John doesn't want to leave. He really doesn't mind being caught in the best thing that has ever happened to him. But Sherlock bolts himself up, shoving him clothes in his direction, "Hurry up, John!"

Muttering silent curses, John sits up straight, managing to tie two buttons of his shirt and fastening the flies of his trousers. Sherlock almost drags him towards the other end as they exit through a door and find themselves at the foot of the staircase connecting the third class berths and the firemen's passage. They rush upstairs, not knowing where it will lead them. At last they manage to come through a crew door onto the deck. Its chilly, but the cold doesn't manage to attack them as they embrace, feeling for each other's presence, grinning.

"Come away with me," says John, out of blue.

"What?"

"Come away with me," he repeats, "I know it's stupid, and... I know that I don't have much, I pretty much have next to nothing... but Sherlock, when the ship docks, don't look back..."

Sherlock's smile disappears, as he weighs his options. It has been only three days since they had met. Only three.

John looks almost afraid when he suggests this to Sherlock, but he emboldens himself, "Sherlock, Victor isn't the real problem... Mycroft is. Even if Victor breaks off his engagement with you, Mycroft would certainly..."

"We've bonded," he lets out a shuddery gasp, as if the word itself reverberated the physical and psychological seam that they were linked in, "Mycroft can't separate us."

Sherlock knows that he is only giving John false reassurance. Mycroft could go to any limits. And a bond, after excruciating consequences could be dissolved upon the death of a mate. Sherlock doesn't know whether he would be strong enough to handle it.

"When the ship reaches New York, I'm getting off with you," Sherlock, even though he loathed to admit it, feels a slight twinge in his heart to let his brother go, but... he isn't going to take it anymore, "I have some money, some savings to my name. I'll withdraw them before Mycroft can close the bank account..."

He stops suddenly, feeling John's fingers on his lips. Their breath clouds around them in the now freezing air, but they don't even feel the cold, "I don't care what you do with the money. We're gonna be together."

Sherlock's eyes glow at the wondrous prospect of being free from the clutches, and more than that, being with John. He simply leans down and kisses him passionately, putting his arms around him, lost in the feeling of his lips moving against his.

If there's anything that could pull them apart at this moment, it was the world trembling underneath their feet, which it did.

* * *

**I know that you guys hate Mycroft now, but I'm telling you, indirectly, he's sort of helping John even though he himself doesn't know it. You'll find out later during the sinking ;)**

**Hope you liked this chapter! 3**


	14. Can I Get Some Ice, Please?

**Long chapter. And a quick update. Just general reception of the iceberg crashing into Titanic and the plan that Mycroft has in store for Sherlock and John.**

* * *

Fredrick Fleet and Reginald Lee were on lookouts duty since the dusk, First Officer Murdoch checks with Chief Officer Wilde. Ever the watchful officer, he stations himself on the starboard side of the bridge, his eyes alert and awake as he wraps the coat around him, turning up the collar against the chilly wind. Down on the deck, he sees Sherlock and John kissing each other passionately. For one moment he frowns, and then realises that one of them is an Omega. He smiles, blushing slightly and looks away, unlike the lookouts in the crow's nest, who gawk at them.

"Lee?" Fleet nudges his fellow lookout, "It's the same two again! Look at them, would ya?"

"Ooh," says Lee, shivering violently with the cold, "They're a bloody sight warmer than we are. Wish I had an Omega too..."

"Shut up, yeh pervert! And get away," says Fleet, giggling a little, jostling with Lee to warm himself up, "I'd rather fight with ya, if I were to warm meself up, a'right?"

"Wish I had those bleeding binoculars!"

They both have a good laugh at that one as they turn to watch out the sea again. It is Fleet whose expression falls first. Glancing forward again, he does a double take. The colour drains out of his face as he sees a massive iceberg, 500 yards out, almost invisible in the darkness. The ship is heading head-on for it.

"Bugger me!"

Lee is almost stunned into inaction as Fleet grabs the rope of the lookout bell and pulls at it with all his strength. Murdoch turns and gazes into the distance, instantly alarmed by the sound of the bell.

Fleet reaches out past Lee to grab the telephone, which rings in the enclosed wheelhouse. He waits precious seconds before Sixth Officer Moody can unhurriedly pick it up.

"What do you see?" he asks into the phone.

Hitchins looks a little panicked when he hears Fleet's voice over, "Iceberg, right out!"

"Thank you," saying this, he hangs up and calls to Murdoch, "Iceberg, right out!"

Murdoch sees it and rushes to the engine room telegraph. While signalling 'Full Speed Astern', he yells to Quartermaster Hitchins, who is at the wheel, "Hard to starboard!"

Hitchins grabs the rudder, and turns it with as much force as he can apply. From behind a startled Moody, Murdoch singlehandedly turns the two engine telegraphs to 'Full Speed Astern'.

* * *

In the engine room, Chief Engineer Bell is just checking the soup he has warming on a steam manifold when the engine telegraph clangs, then goes incredibly to 'Full Speed Astern'. He and the other engineers just stare at it a second, unbelieving. Then Bell reacts, not caring that the scalding hot soup spills over his knee, "Full astern!"

The engineers and greasers rush about like madmen to close steam valves and start braking the mighty propeller shafts to a stop. In the Boiler rooms, the stokers are working as per their usual routine when the indicator light shines red, saying 'Stop'.

"Shut all the dampers," they yell to each other, "shut them!"

* * *

"The helm's hard over, sir," Moody calls out to Murdoch.

From the bridge, Murdoch watches the berg growing straight ahead. The bow finally starts to turn left. His jaw clenches as the bow turns with agonizing slowness. He holds his breath as the horrible physics play out.

"Come on, turn," he mutters to himself, "Turn, damn you!"

For one moment, there's victory on his face as his features relax upon seeing the bow turn away from the ship. He prepares his thanks to the Father in the Heavens, but the ship has too much momentum and too small a turning radius as the starboard side of the ship collides with the iceberg, making the wood beneath Murdoch's palms quake. He looks down at his trembling hand, and the trembling ship, and then at the startled couple below on the deck, John and Sherlock, who have broken away and are looking in astonishment as the berg sails past, blocking out the sky like a mountain. Fragments break off it and crash down onto the deck, and they have to jump back to avoid flying chunks of ice. A flare of guilt passes through Murdoch upon seeing the bemused couple and he rushes into action again, to do anything in his power to save the ship. He rings the watertight door alarm, quickly throwing the switch that closes them.

"Hard a 'port!" says he, trying to clear the stern from the impact.

* * *

In the boiler rooms, the hull buckles in four feet with a sound like thunder. Like a sledgehammer beating along outside the ship, the berg splits the hull plates and the icy waters of the sea pour in, sweeping the stokers off their feet. Rivets pop as the steel plate of the hull flexes under the load.

The stokers hear the door alarm and realise that they would be trapped if they don't manage themselves out of there before the watertight doors shut down. They scramble through the swirling water to the watertight door between the Boiler Rooms. The room is full of water vapour as the cold sea strikes the red hot furnaces. Stokers yell to each other scrambling through the door as it comes down like a slow guillotine.

"Go lads, go!"

* * *

In his stateroom, surrounded by piles of plans while making notes in his ever-present book, Mr. Andrews looks up at the sound of a cut-crystal light fixture tinkling like a windchime. He feels the shudder run through the ship as he splays his palms on the table, almost as if he can feel the ship's pain. Too much of his soul is in the ship for him not to feel its mortal wound. A steward comes after a few minutes, running and panting.

"Sir, they need you, sir. Officer Murdoch, he's asked for you, sir!"

Without wasting a second on dwelling upon what has happened, he rushes out of his stateroom, carrying an armload of rolled up ship's plans.

* * *

In the First Class Smoking Room, Colonel Gracie watches his highball vibrating on the table. He gives a short laugh, "I didn't know we had earthquakes on water too!"

We're going like lunatics, I tell you," says Sir Duff Gordon, "I have fifty dollars that says we make it into New York Tuesday night!"

* * *

In the Palm Court, with its high arched windows, Molly Brown holds up her drink to a passing waiter, "Hey, can I get some ice here, please?"

Silently, a moving wall of ice fills the window behind her. The waiter stares at it in bewilderment. She doesn't see it. It disappears astern.

"Hey, sonny! Some ice, here!"

The waiter scrambles to acquiesce. She rolls her eyes as he goes away, "Remind me to write a letter of complaint to the White Star Line, Noëlle," says she to the Countess, "These people are useless!"

* * *

On the deck, John and Sherlock stare at each other, watching their linked hands with an expression of mutual anxiety. It's Sherlock who first rushes to the starboard rail in time to see the berg moving aft down the side of the ship. John exhales, thinking about what had just happened.

"We hit an iceberg," John's face is covered with shock and uncertainty about the future they had been planning minutes ago, "didn't we, Sherlock?"

Sherlock is just about to say that they did, but then he sees John's blanched face, and feels his distress through their Bond. He changes his wording, "Looks okay. I don't see anything."

"Could it have damaged the ship?"

He attempts a fake reassuring smile, "It didn't seem like much of a scratch. I'm sure we're okay."

John knows Sherlock is lying, he can feel it, but he says nothing at Sherlock's attempts to calm him down. They turn around to see a couple of steerage guys, kicking the ice around the deck, laughing merrily. Sherlock just holds on to John's hand, subconsciously finding his anchor, then finding a chunk of ice on his feet, he picks it up and shoves down John's back in an effort to relax the situation. John grins and shivers at the chill and makes a snowball out of the rest of the ice, projecting it in Sherlock's direction and feeling the tension ease.

* * *

On the starboard side of the ship, the alarm bells still clatter mindlessly, seeming to reflect Murdoch's inner state. He is in shock, unable to get a grip on what just happened. He just ran the biggest ship in history into an iceberg on its maiden voyage. He is sweating in spite of the freezing cold, as he exhales a shaky breath, his voice stiff and unnatural as he orders Moody, "Note the time. Enter it in the log."

Hitchins is in almost the same panicky state. He was at the wheel at the time of the collision. They both turn around as Captain Smith rushes out of his cabin onto the bridge, tucking in his shirt.

"What was that, Mr. Murdoch?"

He swallows, "An iceberg, sir," his voice remains admirably steady as he explains his actions, while the colour drains from the captain's cheeks, "I put her hard a' starboard and run the engines full astern, but it was too close. I tried to port around it, but she hit... and I-"

Captain Smith walks out. Together they rush out onto the starboard wing, and Murdoch points. Smith looks into the darkness aft, then wheels around to him, his eyes not believing what had happened.

"Find the carpenter and get him to sound the ship."

* * *

In the G Deck berths, Mike is suddenly tossed in his bunk by the impact. He hears a sound like the greatly amplified squeal of a skate on ice. One of the Swedes jump down their bunks to find the floor wet. In the dark, he fumbles around for the switch and naps on the light. The floor is covered with 3 inches of freezing water, and more coming in. He pulls the door open, and steps out into the corridor, which is flooded.

"What the hell?!" Mike exclaims, and then checks for the bunk below, "Where's John?"

Suddenly, Greg appears in the doorway, searching for him, "Mike, get out! Something's happened."

He sees the bunk empty. Mike follows his gaze as he jumps down, grabbing John's and his kitbags, "We've got to find John!"

"He'll be with Sherlock! We've got to find Molly!" Saying this, he rushes out, with Mike on his heels, pounding on others' doors, getting everybody up and out. The alarm spreads in several other languages.

"That's the other side of the ship! We've got to go up!"

"You can come with me, or you can go, I don't care!"

Mike and Greg are in a crowd of steerage men clogging the corridors, heading aft away from the flooding. Many of them have grabbed suitcases and duffel bags, some of which are soaked. Mike nods reluctantly, and follows him, pulling his cardigan over him.

* * *

In the B Deck corridor, Bruce Ismay, dressed in pyjamas under the topcoat, hurries down the corridor, headed for the bridge. An officious steward comes along the other direction, getting the few concerned passengers back into their rooms. A couple of people have come out into the corridor in robes and slippers. Another steward hurries along, reassuring them.

"Why have the engines stopped?" Lady Duff-Gordon confronts him, "I felt a shudder..."

"I shouldn't worry, ma'am," says he reassuringly, "We've likely thrown a propeller blade, that's the shudder you felt. May I bring you anything?"

"You there," Victor rushes out of his stateroom followed by Mycroft. He suddenly calls out to the steward, "Get me Anna Daniels, suite number D 74!"

"Sir, there's no emergency-" the steward begins his practiced dialogue but Mycroft cuts him off, "And the master-at-arms as well!"

"Sir...?" he looks bemused, wondering what sort of calamitous fools he has run into, but Victor barks at him, "Now, you moron!"

The steward scampers away, and Victor throws a victorious smirk in Mycroft's direction. One more step and the plan would be put into action. Mycroft doesn't return it, wondering how his brother is going to react to it. There would be pain, surely, but it would be for the best.

* * *

In the chartroom, Captain Smith stands, studying the commutator. He turns to Andrews, standing behind him, "A five degree list in less than ten minutes."

The ship's carpenter enters behind him, out of breath and clearly unnerved, but he manages to stutter anyway, "She's making water fast... in the forward holds and in boiler room six. The mail hold is worse- She's all buckled in-"

"Have you seen the damage in the mail hold?" asks Andrews, his eyes anxious.

"No, I'm afraid sir, she's already underwater."

Ismay enters, his movements quick with anger and frustration as he runs his fingers through his hair. Smith glances at him with annoyance.

"Why have we stopped?"

In this hour of dire emergency, Smith and Andrews look upon him condescendingly as an ignorant man. It does not matter to them anymore that he's their employer. Smith grits his teeth as Andrews looks at him, waiting for the answer and his reaction, "We've struck ice."

"Well, do you think the ship is seriously damaged?" says he, thinking of the insurance, "or is it like the one at Cherbourg?"

Smith glares at him, wanting to tell him that almost colliding with a ship and colliding with an iceberg that has nine-tenths of its volume underwater certainly has a difference, but he doesn't reply because he knows that Ismay won't realize the emergency, "S'cuse me."

He pushes past Ismay, with Andrews and the carpenter following behind him.

* * *

A few gentlemen come up onto the well deck. They lean on the forward rail, watching the steerage men playing soccer with chunks of ice.

"I guess it's nothing too serious," says one of them after sometime, "I'm going back to my cabin to read."

A twenty-ish Yale man pops through the door wearing a topcoat over pajamas, "Say, did I miss the fun?"

"Yeah, sort of. Apparently, it hit over there."

John and Sherlock come up the steps from the well deck, which are right next to the three gentlemen. They stare as the couple climbs over the locked gate. A moment later Captain Smith rounds the corner, followed by Andrews and the carpenter. They have come down from the bridge by the outside stairs. The three men, their faces grim, crush right past John and Sherlock. Andrews barely glances at him, his face tense, and Sherlock knows it's worse than it looks.

"Can you shore up?" asks Andrews to the carpenter.

"Not unless the pumps get ahead." The inspection party goes down the stairs to the well deck. John and Sherlock stare after them, "Is it bad?" he asks Sherlock.

"I don't know. I remember Mr. Andrews telling me about the watertight compartments. The ship's designed to survive an iceberg. At any rate, it seems worse than Cherbourg."

John spins around to him, ears perking up, "What happened at Cherbourg?"

"An accident," he replied, "Titanic's huge displacement caused two smaller nearby ships to be lifted by a bulge of water, then dropped into a trough. The engines had to be stopped all of a sudden, and put reverse."

"What?" John exclaimed, "I never felt anything like it."

"You can't feel anything like that if you're on the ship, John. Mr. Andrews told me about it. The mooring cables of one of those ships could not take the sudden strain and snapped, swinging her around stern-first towards Titanic. You remember, we were delayed for one hour in there. That's what had happened."

"So? I mean, after that?"

"A nearby tugboat came to the rescue by taking the rogue ship under tow and Titanic's engines were put "full astern", avoiding a collision by a matter of about 4 feet."

"Holy Mary! So this time, it's..."

"We've hit a berg for real," he nods, not letting go of his hand, "This IS bad."

John looks up at the Omega's searching eyes, "We should tell Mycroft about this."

Sherlock heaves a sigh of despair, "And it just got worse."

John merely smiles, "Come with me, Sherlock. I jump, you jump... Right?"

Sherlock looks at him, watching his face, studying him. Finally he gives in, "Right."

* * *

As John and Sherlock cross the B Deck foyer, entering the corridor, they see Gregson waiting for them in the hall as they approach the room. He gives them a tight-lipped smile.

"We've been looking for you, sir."

Sherlock simply rolls his eyes, not realising the trap they were walking into. Gregson follows and, unseen, moves close behind John and smoothly slips a plain golden wedding ring into the pocket of his overcoat.

Victor and Mycroft wait in the sitting room, along with Andrea, the Master-at-Arms and two stewards. Silence falls as Sherlock and John enter, with Sherlock promptly announcing, "Something serious had happened-!" but he stops abruptly as a Swedish woman rushes to John, clinging to his chest, sobbing gratefully into it and she retracts John's hand away from Sherlock.

"Sven!" she wails, as Sherlock watches the couple, gaze transfixed with horror. He tries to call out John's name, ask him who the woman is and what she means to him, but he finds that words don't come to him. He wants to shove her away from his Alpha. But his throat is dry, and he feels the world spinning around him. John tries to shove that woman away, and go to his Omega, to comfort him, tell him that what he is thinking isn't true, but she simply doesn't budge away. Sherlock's eyes travel downwards, and his breath stops right there, lungs stabbed by a sharp pain, worse than anything he has ever felt. She's pregnant.

Sherlock swallows, pushing those thoughts aside. Mycroft stares at him in disbelief. The Estrus cycle was over. He looks from John to his brother in horror, and realises that they have already Bonded. Nevertheless, he manages to speak, taking Sherlock's arm gently and pulling him aside, "Oh Sherlock, what have you done?"

Sherlock snaps out of his reverie and looks up at his brother's eyes, furrowed with anguish, lost in wide-eyed and horrified thought. For the first time, his lips tremble as he looks into his grey eyes. Mycroft's grip loosens as Sherlock's expression makes everything clear for him. Beside them, the woman, Anna, is still sobbing.

"Åh, tack gode Gud att du är här," she sobs in Swedish. _Oh, thank god you're here! "_Han saknar sin pappa," _He misses his papa_. She takes his hand and places it on her tummy as John stares down at her and then at Sherlock, begging him not to believe it. He snatches his hand back.

"Vart tog du vägen, Sven?" _Where did you go, Sven?_

"Sven?" Sherlock finally manages to stammer, his voice choked with betrayal, hurt and confusion.

"What the hell?" John looks at her, completely disgusted, "Get off me!"

"Vad gjorde du med den där mannen, Sven?" _What were you doing with that man, Sven?_ She demands, " Varför blev du hålla händerna?" _Why were you holding hands?_

"Yes _Sven_," Victor pipes in, sneering at his victory, "Where have you been-?"

"Stop it!" Sherlock roars, the rage pumping through him so fiercely that he feels positively ill, "Stop it, now!"

The woman backs away, clearly terrified, and then does a take at John's hand, "Sven, var är din vigselring?" _Sven, where is your wedding ring?_ She asks him, brandishing her own plain gold wedding band at him. Sherlock catches the malevolent glint of it, and looks at John wide-eyed, waiting for an explanation.

"Yes, Sven," Victor interrupts again, "Why aren't you wearing your wedding ring?"

"He isn't married, damn it!" Sherlock manages to speak through clenched teeth, but Victor whips around, as if he had been waiting for this, "Isn't he? Search him, gentlemen."

Gregson pulls at John's coat and John shakes his head in dismay, shrugging out of it. The Master-at-Arms pats him down. Gregson fishes in the coat pocket, until he has found an identical gold wedding band.

"Your wedding band, son," says he, handing it to the Swedish woman. Sherlock feels the ground slipping from beneath his feet. The woman sobs hysterically, attempting to insert it into his ring finger, but John jerks away, and takes it off, flicking it away at Victor's feet.

"Sherlock!" he calls to him, "Don't you believe it!"

Sherlock could feel his Bond tearing at him, wanting to make him believe that this woman was mistaken, but all he can manage to do is stand straight. His knees feel wobbly. He wonders if John could feel his heart breaking. He wonders if John could feel the Bond tearing him apart too. He can feel the anguish in John, his repeated pleas, but the evidence in front of his eyes is just too much.

He had let John seed him, he had thought about their child. He had thought about leaving his whole life for him. He had believed that John would come down after him if he ever slipped.

He remembers John flying with him. He remembers John dancing with him, pointing out the stars. He recalls that honest face in the gym. He recalls Jennifer Wilson's case. He recalls John kissing his fingers. He remembers John's face as they Bonded, as he knotted him. He remembers the post-coital daze and the feeling of John inside him, on top of him. He remembers John sketching him, the look in his eyes. He remembers John's proposal. And then he looks at the wedding band at Victor's feet.

"John...?" his voice sounds so weak, so painful; it feels to John like nails screeching against glass.

John had said that. He had said 'You jump, I jump'. And there he was, with that woman, calling him Sven. with his child in her. Was 'John' even his real name, or did he lie even to her?

"Sherlock," he takes large strides across the room in his Omega's direction, wanting to comfort him, to shield him from the pain he was feeling. John could feel it too, he could feel his trust crumbling into ashes and dust. Meanwhile, Sherlock feels stunned into feeling nothing but pain, excruciating pain. He wants the anger to take him completely, to block out the pain at least. But the throb of pain forces itself through the anger. Sherlock wants to thrust it away. He wants to feel enraged, he wants to be eaten up with anger. It would at least make it easier to ignore the agony that was being barely contained inside of him.

"Stand back!" Victor cries out, coming between John and Sherlock, and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's figure. Mycroft visibly flinches at the sight of Victor's hands on Sherlock.

At that point, John loses it. He takes a quick sharp intake of breath, and swings his fist at Victor's nose, painfully colliding with it, and almost breaking it under his fingers.

"You dirty pervert!" he screams, as Gregson and the stewards lunge forward to restrain him, "Get away from him! Sherlock, they put it in my pocket!"

"Did we now?" Mycroft comes forth as Victor groans with well-deserved pain, "Care to explain how she," he points at Anna, "has a similar wedding band?" The Swedish woman starts sobbing again.

"Sherlock, I swear, I've never seen this woman before-!"

"Vårt barn, Sven!" she sobs when she hears John declaring that he doesn't know her, "Låt min Sven gå!" _Our baby, Sven! Let my Sven go! _She tugs at the master-at-arms, who takes out handcuffs.

"Right then," says he, ignoring the woman, "Now don't make a fuss, lad!"

"Take him away!" Victor manages to whimper, blood running from his nose freely, as he tilts his head backwards.

"Sherlock, look at me," John pleads, "Don't you believe them, Sherlock! She's not my wife! She's Swedish, for God's sake!"

"Who denied that?" Andrea waves a couple of papers in front of Sherlock as John shouts to him, "He got on the ship as Sven Gundersen, Swedish, suite number G 60," it's John's Titanic ticket in her fingers.

"Sherlock, don't listen to them... " John pleads, "I don't know her! I don't know about the ring! You know it! I'd never do that to you!"

Despite not being able to think, Sherlock's mind travels to the part when he went to his suite. G 60 indeed. A single tear rolls down his cheek that he manages to brush away instantly, as he feels Mrs. Hudson's comforting arms around him. His eyes settle on the divan, where he had posed for John. It feels like such a long time ago.

He feels devastated, as the master-at-arms and the stewards drag a struggling John away from him. Victor pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand and holds a handkerchief underneath, soaking the blood. He feels disgusted at the thought of even touched by John as he calls out to Mycroft, "The nerve of some people." Gregson accompanies Anna till her suite, as she swiftly slips into it. He discreetly passes her a check, the second half of her payment, and nods at Victor, their plan successful.

Mycroft does not reply. He simply watches his little brother trying to fight the betrayal valiantly, hating himself for every moment of pain that he causes to him. From inside the sitting room they can hear knocking and voices in the corridor.

"You should get dressed, my dear," says Mycroft, to Andrea. She nods, taking one look into Sherlock's empty eyes and goes away to her bedroom, "And you, Mrs. Hudson," he nods kindly to the old housekeeper, who seems reluctant to leave Sherlock's side, but she leaves after a nod of reassurance.

* * *

In the Chartroom, Andrews unrolls a big drawing of the ship across the chartroom table. It is a side elevation, showing all the watertight bulkheads. His hands are shaking and his breath is shuddery, as he if he was beginning to die with the ship. Murdoch and Ismay hover behind Andrews and the Captain.

"This is most unfortunate, Captain," says he, "Water, 14 feet above the keel in ten minutes... in the forepeak... in all three holds... and in boiler room six.

"Alright," says Smith, nodding to show that he understands, but Ismay interrupts, "When can we get underway, do you think?"

Smith glares at him and turns his attention to Andrews' drawing. The builder points to it for emphasis as he talks, "That's five compartments. She can stay afloat with the first four compartments breached. But not five," his eyes grow fearful and guilty as he swallows, "Not five... As she goes down by the head the water will spill over the tops of the bulkheads... at E Deck... from one to the next... back and back, like a domino. There's no stopping it."

Smith looks at him, trying to understand the gravity of the situation, and then points at the diagram, "The pumps... if we open the pumps..."

"The pumps buy you time..." says Andrews, "but minutes only. From this moment," he turns to look at the carpenter, "no matter what we do..." he swallows before saying those dreadful words, "Titanic... will founder."

Ismay stares at him incredulously, as if he were joking. A hollow laugh almost escapes his throat, "But this ship can't sink!"

Andrews turns to him at once, "She is made of iron, sir! I assure you, she can," he looks down, not understanding why people couldn't comprehend the situation, "And she will. It is a mathematical certainty."

Smith looks like he has been punched in the gut, "How much time?" he asks him quietly, trying to maintain the collected facade.

Andrews waits for several moments, his brain calculating at half the speed than usual, like it has suffered a wound, Titanic's wound, "An hour. Two at most." With only few words, he manages to shake the crew in there. He averts his eyes, not able to face anyone. Ismay reels as his dream turns into his worst nightmare.

Smith speculates his actions from earlier, as he feels the imaginary accusatory looks from the ship's officers, "And how many aboard, Mr. Murdoch?"

Murdoch swallows, feeling the same guilt, as if he cannot believe the number that comes out from his mouth, "Two thousand two hundred souls aboard, sir."

Smith straightens up, taking a deep breath, and then turns to Ismay, with a derogatory sneer, "I believe you may get your headlines, Mr. Ismay."

* * *

Victor turns to Sherlock, and crosses to him. He regards him coldly for a moment, then slaps him across the face. But to Sherlock, the blow is inconsequential compared to the blow his heart has been given. Mycroft's jaw muscles clench, fury rising in him at Victor.

"Such a dirty little Omega, aren't you?"

And before Mycroft can think about what he is doing, he grabs Victor's arm and twists it painfully, slamming him face-first against the wall beside the door. Victor cries out in pain and surprise. Mycroft's breath is still measured, his voice venomous, "Keep your hands off him, do you understand me?"

Victor yelps as he twists it further, "He... he's my... Omega..." he manages to pant.

"He is nobody's Omega," he restrains himself from spitting in disgust, "He's my brother. And he most certainly isn't marrying you."

He releases him, just as he hears a loud knock on the door and an urgent voice. The door opens and a steward pokes his head in, taking the liberty of walking inside.

"Sir, I've been told to ask you to please put on your lifebelt, and come up to the boat deck."

"Get out," Mycroft growls, "We're busy."

The steward persists, coming in to get the lifebelts down from the top of a dresser, just as Andrea comes out from the bedroom. Victor pushes himself free of his grip and holds his left arm in pain.

"I'm sorry about the inconvenience, Mr. Holmes, but it's Captain's orders. Please dress warmly, it's quite cold tonight."

Mycroft does a take at the older Alpha pinching the bridge of his nose, looking down at him defiantly.

"Get out," he growls, his voice quiet but only Sherlock knows how fuming he is underneath, "And don't you ever look at my brother again."

With whatever dignity he can manage, Victor clenches his jaw, taking a look at Sherlock that suggests that he hasn't given up yet, and leaves. Sherlock slumps against the divan settling down into it. The steward hands a lifebelt to Mycroft and Sherlock, and goes to comfort Andrea with another lifebelt, "Not to worry, miss, I'm sure it's just a precaution."

She takes the lifebelt he offers, and he rushes out of their stateroom, telling them to gather in the boat deck. In the corridor outside the stewards are being so polite and obsequious, they are conveying no sense of danger whatsoever. However, it's another story.

"We've struck ice," says Sherlock finally, looking up at Mycroft's face.

* * *

**Forgive me for being so horrible to John! I seriously hate myself.**

**Anna Daniels is a fictional character created for my own purposes. She is an actress and a linguist. Seeing that John had tickets under a Swedish name, Mycroft used her to drive a wedge between them and then pay her off. And I'm telling you, this is going to help save John ;)**

**Dear Google Translate,**

**I don't know if the translations from English to Swedish are correct. But I love you anyway.**

**Yours Truly,**

**S_IRIS**


	15. The Beginning Of The End

**I hope the title is self-explanatory**

* * *

In her dream, Cora is riding a unicorn, one she has read about only in books and fairy tales. It's pure white, majestic and its body glows brilliantly. It tosses its head back, it's beautiful golden curls bouncing up and down as she rides through the land of Tír na nÓg, seated on its back, dressed like a princess. She rides through the rainbow and the waterfall. The clouds are just there, she always manages to wake up when she's about to approach the clouds, because of something or the other, or just because she feels Lucy, her doll, calling to her. But today, she's there, just there, fingertips away from the clouds...

Bang! The door is thrown open and the lights snapped on by a steward. The Cartmell family rouses from a sound sleep and Cora awakens from her dream at once, startled by the sudden noise.

"Everybody up! Let's go!" says the steward, dumping the lifebelts on the floor, "Put your lifebelts on!"

She rubs her eyes and tries to keep them open against the glare of the sudden light, and then peeps down at her papa, stirring from sleep, "What's he on about?" says he.

She looks miserable. Her dream was left incomplete as always.

In the corridor outside, stewards are going from door to door along the hall, pouncing and yelling rudely at everyone, only one dialogue, "Lifebelts on. Lifebelts on. Everybody up, come on. Lifebelts on..."

People come out of the doors behind the steward, perplexed. One of the stewards push past a woman, who asks her husband what was being said. He shrugs, not knowing English at all.

* * *

In the Wireless room, Captain Smith enters wordlessly as Bride and Philips manage a clumsy imitation of a salute, rising from their chair. They've finished with most of the lot of the telegrams. Smith doesn't respond; he simply draws a chit out of his breast pocket and hands it to Phillips, "These are our coordinates," says he, not managing to look him in the eye as Philips looks incredulously at him, "Send the CQD to any ship nearby-"

"CQD, sir?" says he, looking shocked, as if he has never heard of it before.

Smith clears his throat, brows furrowing slightly, "That's right," he takes his cap off and looks away at the door, subconsciously wanting to get away. At this point, he imagines everyone hailing him as responsible for the ship's fate as he feels Bride's eyes on him, "CQD. The distress call. Tell whoever responds that we're... going down by the head," Philips looks at the man as if he's out of his mind, "and need immediate assistance."

Smith's eyes roam around the whole cabin, taking in every detail of the machinery for the last time as he puts the cap back on and leaves just as silently as he came. Bride stares after him in disbelief.

"Blimey," is all Philips can manage.

"Maybe you ought to try that new distress call... S.O.S." says Bride grinning, not really believing that this mighty ship could go down, "It may be our only chance to use it."

Phillips laughs, in spite of himself, "Yeah, right. It's not that new, ships use it all the time."

"Come on! It's easier!"

Ignoring him, Philips keys the CQD, transmitting the distress signals to ships all around.

* * *

Steam is venting from pipes on the funnels overhead, and the din is horrendous as the crew work with the lifeboats and the falls, mishandling them. Speech is adding difficulty to the crew's level of disorganization.

"Keep lowering!" Lightoller, standing over in the port side, yells over the deafening noise. There's Chief Officer Wilde a couple of metres away, conversing with Captain Smith while supervising the men at work.

"Steady!" his voice booms out as he sees the davits being handled improperly, "Make it taut! And winch out!"

"Uncover this boat! Uncover this boat aft!"

Andrews hurries along the boat deck, leaping up a gate to the deck, having checked the starboard side, as seamen and officers scurry to uncover the boats. Andrews sees some men fumbling with the mechanism of one of the davits and yells to them over the roar of steam.

"Turn to the right! Pull the falls taut before you unfasten. Have you never had a boat drill?"

"No sir!" one of the seamen yells back, "Not with these new davits, sir."

He looks at them, disgusted as the crew fumble with the davits and the tackle for the falls, and he remembers about the boat drills. He suddenly notices that there are no passengers. He looks around in amazement. The deck is empty except for the crew fumbling with the davits. He yells over the roar of the steam to Wilde.

"Mr. Wilde, where are all the passengers?"

"They've all gone back inside," says he, brandishing his whistle and bringing it near his mouth, "Too damn cold and noisy for them," he looks up to see one of the seamen fumbling with the Collapsibles, "You there!" his shrill whistle rings out, "Are ya out of your mind? Get down here, and get these davits cleared up first!"

Andrews feels like he is in a bad dream. He looks at his pocket watch and hurries to the foyer entrance.

* * *

A large number of First Class passengers have gathered near the staircase. They are getting indignant about the confusion. In the First Class Lounge, passengers are sipping brandy to protect themselves from the cold. Many have got their luggage with them. The jumpy piano rhythm of "Alexander's Ragtime Band" plays as Bandmaster Wallace Hartley has assembled some of his men on Captain's orders, to allay the panic. They're the only ones without lifebelts, apart from some other men and waiters.

Thomas Andrews walks past them like a ghost, unnoticed and unrecognised. His eyes scan the whole place, the most elegant and magnificent room of the ship, which he knows is doomed. He feels his heart snapping into two pieces to even think that all of it would be underwater in an hour. He remembers all nights of how he had diligently worked upon her design, striving for perfection in every aspect. The black notebook with all his notes on how to improve upon the ship's plans feels heavy in his pocket. All hope, will and spirit leave him, and there just seems to be no reason to even try. It's over for him.

And then his eyes fall on the band playing nearby. They were still trying for the best. Not that it could make much of a difference, but people are actually listening to them, applauding and requesting for other songs. The band complies cheerfully, seeing as they have proper listeners for the first time.

Andrews takes a deep breath. If they could try, why not he? He could do more. Just for once, he thinks, just one small tour of the Grand Staircase and he would go, save as many lives as possible.

Near the Grand Staircase, Mycroft, Andrea and Sherlock gather with Molly Brown and the Countess and her brother-in-law. Mrs. Hudson carries two lifebelts along in her hands. They have the good sense not to carry their luggage with them. The women look admirably strong, while Mycroft takes one of the lifebelts from her and hands it to Sherlock, who is pretty much sleepwalking.

"There's a reason that steward came and told us to put the lifebelt on, Sherlock. You told me yourself, we've struck ice..."

But Sherlock's eyes find Mr. Andrews on the Grand Staircase, as if he's the only one who can see him and recognise the heartbroken expression on his face. He quickly rushes over to the Beta, "Mr. Andrews!"

He turns at once and looks into his eyes, feeling burnt with guilt, shame and fear when someone actually manages to recognise him. Till now, he hasn't had a problem because he didn't have to face anyone.

"I saw the berg, Mr. Andrews," says Sherlock, using gentler words than usual, "How much time?"

He swallows, and takes him to a side, whispering so that no one can hear. Mycroft closes upon them, keeping a keen ear, "The ship will sink."

The furrows between Sherlock's eyebrows disappear, as Mycroft turns to one of the stewards, accepting a glass of brandy from him, "How much time?"

"In an hour or so..." he looks around, getting a final glimpse, "all this... will be at the bottom of the Atlantic. Please tell only who you must, I don't want to be responsible for a panic. And get to a boat quickly, both of you. Don't wait. You... remember what I told you about the boats, don't you?"

Mrs. Hudson is thankfully at a distance from them, chattering away with poor Andrea, who listens to her with a polite smile stretching across her cheeks.

Sherlock nods briefly, "I do." His mind goes to John instantly, the Bond making him want to push everyone away and run to him, to save his mate. Mycroft sees his face, and his expression hardens as he realises what his brother is thinking, "Sherlock, help Mrs. Hudson here, will you? Andrea and I have some important things to discuss."

And before Sherlock can say anything, he's entrusted with the task of comforting her. He wonders where John is now, or what was happening to him. He tries not to care. He looks around at the frightened masses, and at Mrs. Hudson, who thankfully doesn't remind him of the evening.

* * *

"Over here, son."

"Why won't you let me go?" John tries wriggling out of the master-at-arms' grip, "That man touched him!"

Gregson and the Master-at-Arms are handcuffing a still swearing John to a water pipe as a crewman rushes in anxiously and almost blurts to the Master at Arms-

"You're wanted by the Purser, sir. Urgently. They've got a sort of a big mob 'round there."

"I'll keep an eye on him," says Gregson, drawing out a pistol and smiling triumphantly, happy at having caught him in the end.

Gregson pulls the pearl handled colt from under his coat. The Master at Arms nods and tosses the handcuff key to Gregson, then exits with the crewman. Gregson flips the key in the air and catches it. John looks away, his mind automatically travelling back to Sherlock, as if he can reach out to him.

* * *

"Sir!"

In the enclosed wheelhouse, Bride catches up with Smith as he hands him the message from Carpathia. It's ten minutes past twelve.

"Carpathia says they're making 17 knots," says he, handing him a slip of paper, "full steam for them, sir."

He reads the coordinates for some time, "And she's the only one who's responding?"

"The only one close, sir. She says they can be here in four hours-"

Smith turns to him instinctively, "Four hours?!" The enormity of it hits him like a sledgehammer blow, while Bride looks spooked at the sudden exclamation. He forces a polite smile at the young wireless operator, seeing as he has done whatever he could've done.

"I-I'll... we'll send out... more calls, sir..."

"Thank you, Bride. Relieve yourself and Mr. Philips from duty within half-an-hour."

"Yes, sir," says Bride, rushing away as quickly as possible.

Smith feels literally useless, standing there, his knee hurting him, his head aching from the tension and the lack of sleep, as he watches the young men at work. He had one job in the ship, and he couldn't do it properly. He ignored the iceberg warnings, despite Mr. Andrews' and his own officers' persistent requests to stop for the night. He looks around, wanting to help, but old age certainly has its cons. Lightoller has his boats swung out. He is standing amidst a crowd of uncertain passengers in all states of dress and undress. One first class woman is barefoot. Others are in stockings. The maitre of the restaurant is in top hat and overcoat. Others are still in evening dress, while some are in bathrobes and kimonos. Women are wearing lifebelts over their velvet gowns, dressed to kill even in the final moments. Some have brought jewels, others books, even small dogs.

Lightoller sees Smith walking stiffly toward him and quickly goes to him, with Murdoch joining him from the starboard side. He yells into the Captain's ear, through cupped hands, over the roar of the steam...

"Hadn't we better get the Omegas, the women and children into the boats, sir?"

Smith just nods, a bit abstractly. The fire has gone out of him. Lightoller extends his ear, thinking that he can't hear him. Smith looks almost pained. The ship's officers are still looking up to him for guidance and advice.

"Sir?"

"Women, Omegas and children, yes."

"Yes sir," says Lightoller, withdrawing from him upon seeing the uncertainty, as if almost declaring him as senile and useless, "Right! Start the loading. Omegas, women and children ONLY!" Wilde stares at his captain for a few bewildered moments, before rushing away to help Lightoller organize the boats. Murdoch hurries away too, yelling to Fifth Officer Lowe, "Omegas, women and children FIRST!"

The appalling din of escaping steam abruptly cuts off, leaving a sudden unearthly silence in which Lightoller's voice echoes.

Wallace Hartley raises his violin to play, "Wedding Dance. Ready and-"

The band has reassembled just outside the First Class Entrance, port side, near where Lightoller is calling for the boats to be loaded. They strike up the waltz, lively and elegant. The music wafts all over the ship. He waves his arms frantically at the scared passengers, "Step this way, please. That's right. Come towards me!"

Couples and families hold on to each other as they walk hesitantly towards Lightoller, "Good. For the time being, I shall require only Omegas, women and children. Step into the boat now."

No one budges, not letting go of their husbands' hands. Finally one woman steps across the gap, into the boat, terrified of the drop to the water far below.

"You watch," says one of the Omegas in the group, "They'll put us off in these silly little boats to freeze, and we'll all be back on board by breakfast!"

Lightoller heaves a frustrated breath, "Christ!" and lifts him by the waist, almost dumping him into the boat, causing his Alpha to clench his jaw muscles threateningly, but Lightoller sends him a death glare, "Right then, anyone else fancy a ride?"

Slowly, the women and the Omegas let go of their husband's hands, and step into the boat daintily. When there's no other person eligible to sit in the boat, he turns to the seamen, who're ready by the falls, "And lower away! Left and right together!"

"Wait!" One of the Alphas shout, "It's half full. We Alphas could get on-"

"Only Omegas, women and children, damn you!"

The Alpha shrinks away, taking a last look at the frightened face of his Omega, "I'll get there, darling. You wrap yourself up."

* * *

It's almost twelve forty. Officer Murdoch, with the help of Officers Lowe and Pitman, and also Ismay, loads the passengers into Boat 5. The whole thing is so formal that it is difficult for anyone to realise that it is a tragedy. Men and women are standing in little groups and talking as if nothing has happened. Some laugh as the boats go over the side. The men are up on deck, tucking in the women and smiling. It all seems like a play, like a dream that is being executed for entertainment. It does not seem real. Men say 'After you' as they make some woman or an Omega comfortable and step back. Murdoch only shakes his head at their stupidity. He knows, after all. He has seen the iceberg, and felt the shudder as it scraped along the side of the ship.

"We are safer on board the ship than in that little boat," remarks Astor when someone among the crowd of watching passengers shouts, "Put the brides and grooms in first!"

Ismay tries to orders Third Officer Pitman, but the latter retorts, "I await the _Captain's_ orders."

At the stairwell rail on the bridge wing, Fourth Officer Boxhall and Q Rowe light the first distress rocket. It shoots into the sky and explodes with a thunderclap over the ship, sending out white starbursts which light up the entire deck as they fall.

The Managing Director of White Star Line is cracking. Already at the breaking point from his immense guilt, the rocket panics him. He starts shouting at the officers struggling with the falls of Boat 5.

"There is no time to waste, you blithering idiot!" he shouts at the baby-faced Fifth Officer Lowe, showing off his Alpha dominance, yelling and waving his arms, "Lower away! Lower away! Lower away!"

"Get out of the way, you fool!" He snaps at Ismay as he looks up from the tangled falls at the madman.

Ismay towers over him, "Do you know who I am?"

Lowe, not having a clue nor caring, squares up to Ismay, "You're a passenger. And I'm this sinking ship's bloody officer. Now do what you're told!" he turns away, "Steady, men! Stand by the falls! Get on Herb, you're in charge! And you, Alfie!"

Ismay backs away numbly, "Yes, quite right. Sorry."

Lowe heaves a sigh of relief, "Thank you."

Herbert Pitman gets into the boat, along with Q Alfred Oliver, "Right then. Goodnight, Will," he nods to Murdoch, and then to Lowe, "And you, Harold. Good luck to you two."

They nod their heads in goodbye, "Alright men, lower away!"

The boat's progress down the side of the ship is slow and difficult. The pulleys are still covered in fresh paint and the lowering ropes were stiff, causing them to stick repeatedly as the boat is lowered in jerks towards the water. Those watching the boat being lowered feel overwhelmed with doubts that they might be subjecting their families to greater danger aboard the boat than if they had remained on Titanic.

"Wait for me!" Lowe and Murdoch look behind to see an overweight Alpha coming to stop right at the edge. He spots the drop, swallows just as Murdoch realises what he is going to do.

"No, sir! The next lifeboat-!" He pulls him back by the jacket, but the man shrugs out of it in an instant, and jumps into the boat, knocking one of the women passengers unconscious with the impact.

"Hold it!" Lowe shouts, as Pitman helps him up, and checks on the woman. Murdoch simply sighs, wondering what sort of sins he is paying for.

* * *

It is chaos in the E Deck, with stewards pushing their way through narrow corridors clogged with people carrying suitcases, duffel bags, children. Some have lifebelts on, others don't.

"I told the stupid sods no luggage," says one of the stewards to another, "Aw, bloody hell!" He throws up his hand at the sight of a family, loaded down with cases and bags, completely blocking the corridor.

Greg and Mike push past the stewards, going the other way. They reach a huge crowd gathered at the bottom of the main Third Class stairwell. Greg finally manages to spot Molly with the rest of the Hooper family, standing patiently with suitcases in hand. He reaches her and she grins, clinging to him, as he kisses her forehead.

Mike pushes to where he can see what's holding up the group. There is a steel collapsible gate across the top of the stairs, with several stewards and seamen on the other side of it.

"Stay calm, please," they say, "It's not time to go up to the boats yet."

"Oh, so when you finish putting First Class people in the boats, you'll be startin' with us, huh? Sod this!"

"Go get help," says the steward frantically to one of the seamen.

* * *

On the starboard side, Murdoch is allowing Alphas onto the lifeboats after all the Omegas, the women and the children in the vicinity have been settled into the boats. It's almost quarter to one. Boat 7 is less than half full, with 28 aboard a boat made for 65.

"Get in the boat!" he shouts at the nearby passengers, and then continues a little gently, "Please sir, it's less than half full!"

"No, thank you, gentlemen," says the man, wrapping his coat around him, "We prefer the warm interior of the ship. Once the boats reach the water they shall pick up passengers from doors in the ship's side."

Murdoch rolls his eyes, "Lower away, left and right together! Steady!"

The boat lurches as the falls start to pay out through the pulley blocks. The women gasp and some of the children start sobbing. The boat descends, swaying and jerking, toward the water 60 feet below. The passengers are terrified.

"Steady! Hold it, lads! Go slowly!"

* * *

On the port side, Lightoller is filling Boat 6. Mycroft, Sherlock and Andrea are waiting.

"Women, Omegas and children only!"

Mycroft takes a deep breath, as Andrea turns to look at him, ever the faithful one, "I won't go without you, sir," but Mycroft simply shakes his head, "Go and find a seat with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, dear. I'll manage with some brandy for myself. Helps fight the cold."

Saying this he leans in, stroking her cheek and plants a soft kiss on her lips, "Go." Sherlock looks gobsmacked at the sight of his brother kissing. Mycroft's eyes narrow, and then he looks almost amused as he sees his brother looking utterly disgusted at the thought of another person wanting to bring their lips to those of Mycroft. Sherlock looks away at Molly Brown getting on the boat.

Another rocket bursts overhead, lighting the crowd. Startled faces turn upward. Fear now in the eyes. Daniel Marvin still has his Biograph camera set up, cranking away... hoping to get an exposure off the rocket's light. He has Mary posed in front of the scene at the boats.

"You're afraid, darling," he says, looking into his camera, "Scared to death. That's it!"

Either she suddenly learned to act or she really is petrified.

Sherlock watches the farewells taking place right in front of him as they step closer to the boat. Husbands saying goodbye to their wives or Omegas and children. Lovers and friends part. Nearby, Molly Brown is getting a reluctant woman to board the boat, "Come on, you heard the man. Get in the boat, sister."

Sherlock feels his hand twitch uncontrollably, his Bond wanting to pull him back to John.

Molly helps Andrea get into the boat, who then extends her arm to Sherlock. Mycroft takes his arm, and helps him into the boat. Sherlock extends one leg forward, seeing the drop under him.

"Don't look down, Sherlock," says Molly, "Just come up here."

"Get back, sir!" Wilde comes, and pulls Mycroft away from him, and tries to shove Sherlock into the lifeboat. As Sherlock sees the water shining brightly due to the reflection from the ship's lights, he remembers just another night, where he had been leaning over water, waiting to die.

You jump, I jump.

He pushes Wilde away, and before Mycroft's slow reflexes can understand what happened, Sherlock is running through the crowd like a lunatic, pushing people away. Another rocket bursts overhead, bathing his face in dazzling white glow like a light from the Heavens. John would never do that to him. He'll work the problem out later. Right now, it doesn't matter.

"NO! Sherlock!" His brother yells, wanting to go after him, but Andrea stops him before they can lower the boat, "Let him go. He'll find his own way."

"Andrea-!"

"Get AWAY, sir!" And Mycroft is pushed away again. He looks at the distance vacantly. Sherlock is gone.

"Get a boat, sir," says she, a victim of old habits, while trying to make her stubborn boss/lover see some sense.

"And lower away!" The boat lurches downward as the falls are paid out.

"He's an Omega," she says as the boat lowers away and Mycroft takes his presumably last glimpse at her lovely face, "he'll get in anytime."

Sherlock runs through the clusters of people coming out. He remembers the tour, he remembers exactly where he has to go, somewhere in E Deck, the Master-at-Arms' cabin... He's got to go back to him. When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. John doing that to him was impossible.

He has got to find John.

* * *

**Did you notice the difference in wordings between Lightoller and Murdoch when Smith tells them to load the women and children into the boats?**


	16. Compliments of Mr Victor Trevor

**This is the chapter where Victor's plan to drive a wedge between John and Sherlock end up saving John *almost saving John*.**

**Long chapter, 6.3K words. Murdoch is not taking bribes here. I always disliked the way Mr. Cameron tarnished his heroic reputation.**

**Not yet proof read; I'll do that tomorrow. I seem to keep on finding errors in this. Please tell me if you find any.**

* * *

John peers out at the porthole, looking apprehensively at the water rising up the glass. Inside the Master-at-Arms' office, he stands, chained to the water pipe, next to the porthole. Gregson sits on the edge of a desk. He puts a .45 bullet on the desk and watches it roll across and fall off in the direction of the ship's descent. He picks up the bullet and smiles cunningly at John, and then loads his pistol with it. John's lips twitch. He knows what's coming next, and he straightens up as Gregson approaches him.

"You know, " says he, as he crosses over to him, "I believe this ship may sink."

John gives him a short laugh, and then feigns shock, "Really? Took you long enough."

"I've been asked to give you this small token of our appreciation..." and he punches John hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. John reels, his face twisting in pain. Gregson flips the silver handcuff key in the air, catches it and puts it in his pocket and exits. John is left gasping, handcuffed to the pipe.

"Compliments of Mr. Victor Trevor."

* * *

On the port side, Lightoller struggles with Boat 8. People are running about, bringing women from all places when they see that the boats are being launched half-full.

Nearby, ex-Congressman Isidor and Ida Strauss are standing, holding hands.

"Please, Ida, get into the boat."

"No!" she looks up at him, "We've been together for forty years, and where you go, I go. Don't argue with me, dear, you know how horrible you are at fighting with words."

He looks at his wife with great sadness and love, "In case you've forgotten, I was a Congressman."

"Ma'am," Lightoller extends his hand to her, as her grip onto her husband tightens, "get into the boat, please."

She looks at the Countess being helped aboard by her brother-in-law, and seaman Jones. She watches a young woman being wrapped with blankets and tucked into the boat as carefully as if she were going on a motor ride. There are still younger people left to board. She looks up at her husband resolutely, and then to Lightoller, "I will not be separated from my husband," she declares solemnly, "As we have lived, so will we die... together."

Lightoller swallows. This has become a frequent problem, but he isn't going to simply pick the old lady up and dump her into the boat. He addresses Isidor Strauss, in the hope that they both might get into the boat, "Sir-?"

"No thank you, sir. I do not wish any distinction in my favour which is not granted to others."

She nods, tears in her eyes, whether or not of joy, she doesn't know, "Till death do us part."

Beside them, one of the men calls out cheerfully to the young woman he has just settled into the boat, "Don't forget to remember me to the folks back home."

The Countess looks pained to leave her brother-in-law, wondering what she would tell the Earl, knowing that the end is inevitable, but he simply waves to her, "Say hello to America for me."

"Left and right together!" Lightoller calls out, "Steady! And lower away!"

* * *

On the Starboard side, Sir and Lady Duff-Gordon watch as Boat 3 is being lowered. As the Boat 1 is prepared for launch, Sir Duff-Gordon approaches Murdoch, "May we, sir?"

Murdoch looks at them, and seeing that the boat is almost empty, he lets them on. While the seamen detach the falls, Boat 1 rocks next to the hull. Lucille and Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon sit with ten others in a boat made for four times that many.

"If they are sending the boats away," remarks someone nearby, "they might as well put some people in them."

"I despise small boats. I just know I'm going to be seasick," she squeals, "I always get seasick in small boats... Good Heavens, there's a man down there!"

In a lit porthole beneath the surface, she sees John looking up at her... a face in a bubble of light under the water. She fails to recognise him.

"Oh dear, says Sir Duff-Gordon, "There's your beautiful night-dress gone."

The rest of the stokers, who have been brought aboard so that they can pick people fallen from the ship into the sea, shake their heads.

"The crew lost all their kit, mistah," says one of them, glaring at the narcissistic couple, "and the pay stopped from the minute of sinkin'."

Sir Cosmo, seemingly irritated, retorts while taking out his chequebook, "Very well, I will give you a fiver each to start a new kit!" He writes all the seven crewmen aboard a cheque for £5 each. They pocket it, while staring with distaste at the repulsive couple.

* * *

John pulls at the pipe with all his strength. He tries to pull one hand out of the cuffs, working until the skin is raw... no good. He tries to pick the locks like he had once watched Sherlock do it. He cannot.

"Oh Jesus!"

He bangs the cuffs on the metallic pipe, hoping the sound would carry, if not his voice, " Help! Somebody! Can anybody hear me?!"

In the corridor, the margin of the water starts creeping, like some sort of silent monster which is slowly taking the ship in its grasp. At this point, it's the only thing that can hear John.

* * *

On the port side, Gregson joins Victor, who has just come onto the boat deck. He is still looking for Sherlock. Gregson points at Mycroft, who is trying his best to help unwilling women get onto the boats.

"Please ma'am, you don't understand," they hear him say politely, "The more the women go into these boats, more room will be left for us and your husbands."

"Will you hold the boat a moment? I have to run back to my room for something-"

He loses it and grabs her, shoving her bodily into the boat. Lightoller grins at him, despite himself, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

Thomas Andrews rushes up to him just then, "Mr. Lightoller, why are the boats being launched half full?!"

Lightoller steps past him, helping a seaman clear a snarled fall, "Not now, Mr. Andrews."

"There, look... twenty or so in a boat built for sixty five. And I saw one boat with only twelve. Twelve!"

"Well... we were not sure of the weight-"

"Rubbish! They were tested in Belfast with the weight of 70 men. Now fill these boats, Mr. Lightoller. For God's sake, man!"

Meanwhile, Victor walks up to Mycroft, lighting a cigarette complacently, "Social service, Mycroft? And just when I thought I had you figured out."

Mycroft heaves an exaggerated breath, "Would you like me to do one by hitting you once more?"

Victor chuckles, blowing the smoke artfully into the cold air, "Touché. You're quite like Sherlock, I have always noted. Hot-headed, impulsive... by the way, where is he?"

"What do you mean?" says he, trying to look busy, "He got on a lifeboat, of course."

Victor's eyes narrow, "Did he now? I suppose I should get myself one too, then."

Mycroft appears nonchalant, "Suit yourself," and then turns to another woman, helping her onboard. As soon as Mycroft is out of earshot, he asks Gregson, "Have you checked everywhere?"

"He's not on the starboard side either. You think he's still on the ship?"

"Of course," he smirks at his valet, "These two may look like they'd kill each other in a day, but Sherlock isn't going anywhere without his brother, I tell you. We're running out of time. And this strutting martinet," he indicates to Lightoller, "isn't letting any Alphas in at all."

"The one on the other side is letting Alphas in," he informs him.

"Then that's our play. But we're still going to need some insurance."

* * *

Sherlock spots the crew passage and slogs down the flooded corridor. The place is understandably deserted. He is on his own. He turns into a cross-corridor, splashing down the hall. There's a row of doors on each side.

"Johnnnn!" He yells, "John, can you hear me?"

He splashes down the hall to a stairwell going down to E deck. It's almost submerged in water. He swallows before lowering himself, gasping at the icy feeling of the water, burning through him like a thousand white hot knives. He remembers John's words on that. He was right. His long coat leaves a trail like a giant snail and the weight of it is really slowing him down. He rips at the buttons and shimmies quickly out of it. He bounds up the stairs to find himself in a long corridor... part of the labyrinth of steerage hallways forward.

He is alone here. A long groan of stressing metal echoes along the hall as the ship continues to settle. He struggles through the waist deep water, gasping and shivering with the cold water attacking his bare skin.

"JOHN?!"

He turns a corner and runs along another corridor in a daze. The hall slopes down into water which shimmers, reflecting the light. A young steward appears, half-running, half-swimming through the water, sending up geysers of spray. He pelts past Sherlock without slowing, his eyes crazed. Sherlock feels the absence of control again. He has been to the Master-at-Arms' cabin before, for the Jennifer Wilson's case, but he just can't remember it now. Everything looks similar. He stops there for a moment, and looks around, trying to organise his thoughts but the freezing water isn't helping. All he knows is that he is in E Deck, in the aft part of the ship. There's no time to think; he struggles through the waist deep water, towards the steward.

"Excuse me!"

But the steward is gone. Leaving him completely alone. It is like a bad dream. The hull gongs with terrifying sounds. There are electric sparks somewhere at a distance as the live lines short-circuit. Sherlock holds his breath and swims away from there. The lights flicker and go out, plunging him into utter darkness. He closes his eyes, and rushes forward carefully, not wanting to cut himself on any jagged edges.

"JOHN!" He yells, half out of terror, "Don't play jokes with me, I know you're there!" It's all he can do to cheer himself up half-heartedly. There's still no response. It's black all around.

Then the lights come back on. He finds himself hyperventilating. That one moment of blackness was frankly terrifying.

"JOHN?!"

"Sherlock?!"

Like the lights, he hears John's voice behind him.

"Sherlock!" There's a sound of metal striking metal, "Sherlock, in here!"

Sherlock spins and runs back, locating the right door, then pushes it open, creating a small wave. There's John, handcuffed to a water pipe, standing on a desk. His face is unreadable from so many different sentiments on his face.

"John! John, oh Lord!" He struggles to him, as John beams at him. They are so happy to see each other it's embarrassing. Sherlock kisses him, and puts his arms around his neck, feeling their Bond strengthen once again, "I'm sorry for... I'm sorry I-"

"It wasn't me, Sherlock," John still pleads, "The wedding band, that valet guy put it in my pocket. I don't know who that woman is, please-!"

"I know!" He gives him a brief kiss and pulls apart, instantly setting to work on the handcuffs upon seeing that there's no time to find a key. John waits patiently as Sherlock works the locks open, his shaking hands not helping him at all. He takes a deep breath and sets to work again.

"So," John starts, trying to sound conversational, "How did you deduce it that I didn't... you know?"

Sherlock doesn't reply, as if he's ashamed that John expected him to work it out when he hasn't worked it out yet, "I-"

Suddenly, it strikes John, "Sherlock, what the hell are you still doing here?"

Sherlock leaves his lock picking at looks up at him incredulously, to which John only replies, "Keep working, talk while you work."

"What do you mean 'why I'm here'? You won't stand a chance, those boats, they're allowing only the Omegas, the women and the children at the moment!"

With a deft click, the handcuffs come away and Sherlock grins at him, but John only kisses him, taking his face in his palms, "You're a big, stubborn, foolish git, you know that?"

Sherlock simply rolls his eyes, but he blushes slightly, "We can do this when we get a lifeboat. Come on, John!"

John jumps down the desk and gasps at the freezing water, "That's so cold!"

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious," says he absentmindedly, coming out of the cabin. Their way out is blocked completely by water gushing in from the stairwell.

"That way, John!" says he, taking his hand and struggling towards the opposite direction, "Come on!" They struggle through the crew passage, through the incoming torrents of water. Many-a-times, the ship's lights go off and come back.

"Why's that happening, Sherlock?" John gasps, trying to avoid the snapped power lines.

"Circuit's going apart," says he, exhausted by the exertions of pulling himself throughout the water, "The water's reached the main power room." They come to a dead end, with a door in the side, but locked.

"One second," says Sherlock, taking a deep breath and going underwater. He fumbles with the lock, trying to pick it. His hands are shaking and he returns to the surface to see John's bemused face, "I'll open it-"

But John doesn't wait. He goes back several steps and throws his entire weight on the door. The wooden doorframe splinters and the door bursts open under the force of John's shoulder. John and Sherlock stumble through, into the corridor with water following them. Some people scream upon seeing the water gushing through.

Sherlock manages a chuckle, as he helps John up, "That works too."

"Can't wait for your lock-picking, can I?"

Right now, steerage passengers move along it like refugees, heading aft. A steward, who was nearby herding people along, marches over, "Here you! You'll have to pay for that, you know. That's White Star Line property-"

"SHUT UP!" the two of manage before promptly rushing away to the upper floors. John leads him past the dumbfounded steward. They join the steerage stragglers going aft. In places the corridor is almost completely blocked by large families carrying all their luggage. John rubs Sherlock's arms and tries to warm him up as they walk along. As they look around, one of the men passing by offers them a flask of whiskey, taking a look at Sherlock, who's almost blue-lipped with cold.

"This'll take the chill off."

Sherlock takes a mighty belt and hands it to John. He grins and follows suit. John tries a number of doors and iron gates along the way, finding them all locked. Finally he spots Greg, standing with Molly Hooper and her family, near a stairwell secured by a collapsible gate.

"Greg!" John yells, and they hurry in their direction, "Greg!"

"John! The boats are all going!"

"We gotta get up there or we're gonna be gargling saltwater. Where's Mike?"

Greg points over the heads of the solidly packed crowd to the stairwell. Mike has his hands on the bars of the steel gate which blocks the head of the stairwell. The crew open the gate a foot or so and a few women are squeezing through.

"Jesus, Mike! MIKE!"

"Women only," the steward yell at them, "No men. No men!"

But some terrified men, not understanding English, try to rush through the gap, forcing the gate open. The crewmen and stewards push them back, shoving and punching them. One of them brandishes a mini revolver, pointing at the crowd, "Get back! Get back you lot!"

They struggle to get the gate closed again. One of the stewards holds a fire axe. They lock the gate, and a cry goes up among the crowd, who surge forward, pounding against the steel and shouting in several languages.

"MIKE!" John shouts, but he can't hear him, "Mike, come here!"

"For the love of God, man," says Mike, shaking the gates, "there are kiddies down here! Let us up, so we can have a chance!"

But the crewmen are scared now. They have let the situation get out of hand, and now they have a mob. Mike gives up and pushes his way back through the crowd, going down the stairs. He rejoins John, Sherlock and Greg.

"It's hopeless that way," he shakes his head.

"Well, whatever we're going to do," says Sherlock, "we better do it fast. The sinking rate has increased."

Greg turns to Molly, taking her hands gently in his, "Molly, everyone... all of you... come with me now. We'll go to the boats. We'll go to the boats. Alright? Come now!"

But before Molly can say anything, her father, the patriarch of the family shakes his head. They can see his urgency, but he will not panic, and will not let his family go with this boy. Greg turns to Molly again.

"Molly, my love, ... please... come with me, I am lucky. We'll get to America..."

But she simply silences him by a brief kiss on his lips, then steps back to be with her family, saying goodbye. John lays a hand on his shoulder, his eyes saying "Let's go". Greg looks at her sadly.

"I will never forget you."

He turns to John and Sherlock, who lead the way out of the crowd. Looking back, Greg sees her face disappear into the crowd.

* * *

Boat 6 silently wades away from the doomed ship. The hull of Titanic looms over it like a cliff. Its enormous mass is suddenly threatening to those in the tiny boat, even though they've made it a hundred feet or so. Enough to see that the ship is angled down into the water, with the bow rail less than ten feet above the surface. Q Hitchins, at the tiller, wants nothing but to get away from the ship. Unfortunately his two seamen can't row properly. Fleet tries to do his best, but he cannot, given he has never had a boat drill. They flail like a duck with a broken wing.

"Keep pulling... away from the ship," says he, "Pull."

"Ain't you boys ever rowed before?" says Molly Brown impatiently, "Here, gimme those oars. I'll show ya how it's done."

She climbs over Andrea to get at the oars, while Andrea looks back at the Titanic, transfixed by the sight of the dying liner. The bowsprit is now barely above the waterline. Another of Boxhall's rockets explodes overhead. It lights up the whole area, with white light. She's still watching the liner, her eyes fixed on the part of the ship from where they had launched, thinking that Mycroft is still there. She doesn't cry.

"Come on girls, join in," says Molly, giving an oar to Andrea, "it'll keep ya warm. Let's go, sister. Grab an oar!"

Andrea just stares at the spectacle of the great liner, its rows of lights blazing, slanting down into the sullen black mirror of the Atlantic. She looks down at the oar, as if it were a culprit taking her away from Mycroft. She pulls her shawl closer to her, and takes it from Molly, working it, rowing away from the ship.

* * *

John, Sherlock, Greg and Mike are lost, searching for a way out. They push past confused passengers... past a mother changing her baby's diaper on top of an upturned steamer trunk... past a woman arguing heatedly with a man in some foreign language, a wailing child next to them... past a man kneeling to console a woman who is just sitting on the floor, sobbing... and past another man with an English/Italian dictionary, trying to figure out what the signs mean, while his wife and children wait patiently.

They come upon a narrow stairwell and they go up two decks before they are stopped by a small group pressed up against a steel gate. The steerage men are yelling at a scared steward.

"Go to the main stairwell, with everyone else. It'll all get sorted out there."

"John, help me here!" John turns to look at Sherlock, who's pointing at a bench.

"Right," he looks at him in bewilderment, wondering since when Sherlock began resorting to brute force. The latter merely smiles sheepishly, "Learnt it from you."

John grins as Sherlock grabs one end of a bench bolted to the floor on the landing. He starts pulling on it, and the rest pitch in until the bolts shear and it breaks free. Mike figures out what they are doing and clears a path up the stairs between the waiting people.

"Move aside! Quickly, move aside!"

John and Sherlock run up the steps with the bench and ram it into the gate with all their strength. It rips loose from its track and falls outward, narrowly missing the steward. Led by John, the crowd surges though. Sherlock steps up to the cowering steward and says in his most imperious tone, "If you have any intention of keeping your pathetic job with the White Star Line, I suggest you escort these good people to the boat deck... now."

John can't help but grin at him. Class wins out. The steward nods dumbly, and motions them to follow.

* * *

Andrea rows with Molly Brown, two other women and the incompetent sailors. She rests on her oars, exhausted, and looks back at the ship. Its slanting down into the water, still ablaze with light. Nothing is above water forward of the bridge except for the foremast. Another rocket goes off, lighting up the entire area... there are a dozen boats moving outward from the ship.

At the Boat Deck rail, Lightoller is shouting to Boat 6 through a large metal megaphone, "Come back! Come back to the ship!"

Wilde joins him, blowing his silver whistle, but it sounds like a soft sound across the water. Q Hitchins grips the rudder in fear.

"The suction will pull us right down if we don't keep going," says he, when Andrea says that they should go back.

"We got room for lots more," says Molly Brown, looking around to other women for support, "I say we go back."

"No! It's our lives now, not theirs. And I'm in charge of this boat! Now row!" He orders them into silence.

* * *

As Victor and Gregson cross the foyer and they encounter Benjamin Guggenheim and his valet, both dressed in white tie, tail-coats and top hats, coming down from their stateroom after he had settled Madame Aubert in a boat. He greets Victor warmly.

"Ben, what's the occasion?" Victor asks him cheerfully, as if he were going to a party.

"We have dressed in our best and are prepared to go down like gentlemen."

Victor's eyes narrow, and creases appear between his brows, "That's... admirable, Ben. I'll sure and tell your wife... when I get to New York. And Madame Aubert."

They make their way through the First Class smoking room, dumping two flasks of whiskey and cigars into his coat pocket as they go. There are still two card games in progress. The room is quiet and civilized. A silver serving cart, holding a large humidor, begins to roll slowly across the room. One of the card players takes a cigar from it as it rolls by.

"It seems we've been dealt a bad hand this time."

Victor rolls his eyes. He believes that he always wins, even if he's dealt a bad hand, "Helps keep off cold," he tells Gregson, filling his overcoat pockets with brandy flasks, as if he doesn't already know.

Victor and Gregson walk aft with a purposeful stride. They pass a man dressed in Chef's uniform, who is working up a sweat tossing deck chairs over the rail. After they go by, that man takes a break and pulls a bottle of scotch from a pocket, opening it. He drains it, and tosses it over the side too, then stands there a little unsteadily.

* * *

Panic around the remaining boats aft. The crowd here is now a mix of all three classes. Officers repeatedly warn men back from the boats. The crowd presses in closer. Mycroft is still searching for his brother, but the outgoing crowd do not allow him entry into the ship's interiors.

Seamen brandish the tiller of Boat 14 to discourage a close press of men who look ready to rush the boat. Several men break ranks and rush forward. Lightoller pulls out his revolver and aims it at them.

"Get back! Keep order!"

The men back down. Fifth Officer Lowe standing in the boat, yells to the crew, "Lower away, left and right!"

Lightoller turns away from the crowd and, out of their sight, breaks his pistol open. It's empty. Letting out a long breath, he starts to load it.

* * *

On the starboard side, forward, Victor and Lovejoy arrive in time to see Murdoch lowering his last boat, "We're too late."

In the water below, there is another panic. Boat 13, already in the water but still attached to its falls, is pushed aft by the discharge water being pumped out of the ship. It winds up directly under boat 15, which is coming down right on top of it. The passengers shout in panic to the crew above to stop lowering. They are ignored. Some men put their hands up, trying futilely to keep the 5 tons of boat 15 from crushing them. One of the stokers gets out his knife and leaps to the after falls, climbing rudely over people. He cuts the aft falls while another crewman cuts the forward lines. 13 drifts out from beneath 15 just seconds before it touches the water with a slap. Victor turns away to hear shots being fired.

"We don't have much time," says Gregson, pointing at his breast pocket, cash money overflowing from it.

"Right." He sees Murdoch turn from the davits of boat 15 and start walking toward the bow. He catches up and falls in beside him.

"Mr. Murdoch, I'm a businessman, as you know, and I have a business proposition for you."

* * *

John, Sherlock, Mike and Greg burst out onto the boat deck from the crew stairs just aft of the third funnel. They look at the empty davits.

"The boats are all gone!"

Sherlock sees Colonel Gracie chugging forward along the deck, escorting two first class ladies, "Colonel! Are there any boats left?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes... there are still a couple of boats all the way forward. This way, I'll lead you!"

"Thank you very much," says John, grabbing his hand as they sprint past Gracie, with Greg and Mike close behind, running to the forward side of the ship.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the forward part of the starboard side, Victor is trying to coax Murdoch into accepting his bribe, as Murdoch and his team are loading Collapsible davits. The crowd is sparse, with most people still aft. Victor slips his hand out of the pocket of his overcoat and into the waist pocket of Murdoch's greatcoat, leaving the stacks of bills there.

"So we have an understanding then?"

Murdoch sees his pockets overflowing with bills, and wonders what sort of a man bribes at such a moment. He looks at him, wanting to be disgusted, but he doesn't have much time. It's 2 in the morning. and the forward part of the ship is mostly underwater. He doesn't care about confronting Victor with the money. He wants to throw it in his face but he has more important things to do than try and make a fool understand that money isn't going to save anyone.

Without a word, he leaves. Victor smirks, thinking that his life is insured now. All that's left is finding Sherlock and forcing him into the boat. Satisfied, he steps back. He finds himself waiting next to Ismay, who isn't meeting his eyes, nor anyone's. Gregson isn't anywhere near.

"Omegas and women and children?" Murdoch calls out, "Any more Omegas and women and children?"

There are none. He glances at Victor, "Anyone else, then?"

Victor looks longingly at his boat... his moment has arrived. But Gregson isn't here. And neither is Sherlock.

"God damn it to hell!" He storms out of there like a demon in tuxedo, leaving behind a bemused Murdoch. Bruce Ismay, seeing his opportunity, steps quickly into Collapsible C. He stares straight ahead, not meeting Murdoch's eyes.

Murdoch sees him in the boat. For a moment, he stares in disbelief, and then his lips curl in a sneer, "Take them down."

* * *

John and Sherlock make it to the middle of the ship. They have already lost Mike and Greg, when another figure crashes into them.

"Mycroft?!"

Mycroft looks awful, completely out of breath, panting and sweating, his tux torn at the shoulders, "Sherlock?" He looks at the small figure of John, "Mr. Watson, Sherlock you've got to get on a boat. They've got the last ones here."

"Port side isn't allowing Alphas on. John needs to get on..."

Sherlock trails off, staring into the distance. He grabs John's hand and almost drags him over to that boat, smiling at his new plan.

"Wait for him!" he shouts, while John tries to keep up with him, wondering what Sherlock has got in his mind. Mycroft tries his best to follow them. They come near the boat, and there's Anna Daniels sitting in it. There's only one more seat left on the boat.

"Hello!" says Sherlock cheerfully, then feigns surprise, "I thought you were pregnant."

She visibly blanches, "Well, I-" She looks up at Mycroft as he arrives, "He'll explain."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Oh, that's right. You aren't pregnant, because you two are newlyweds, aren't you?"

Mycroft, John and Anna stare at him, as if Sherlock's brain was slowly going down with the ship as well, "Sherlock, what're you-?"

"Right," says Wilde, "Anyone else then?"

"Yes," Sherlock yells, making his puppy-dog eyes, "He's a newlywed! That's his wife," he points at Anna, "Please, please let him go!" and before Anna can open her mouth, Sherlock has already turned to Mycroft and produced the wedding band from his pocket which had caused all the trouble, and inserts it into John's ring finger, "Same wedding rings! Newlyweds coming through."

"Sherlock, no!" John clings to him, "I'm not leaving you here." Sherlock's eyes travel over to Wilde, who's surveying them with suspicion.

"Sorry," says Sherlock with a manic grin over his face, a highlight of his tensed nerves, "I'm the best man. He has his concerns," he winks at Wilde, who has no reason to suspect that he's an Omega, given that Sherlock's Estrus had got over.

He turns to John, his uncertain face. He wants to kiss him goodbye, but he knows he can't, not in front of everyone, "John, go! I'm an Omega, for God's sake. I've got my own boat to catch, right Mycroft?"

Mycroft, who has been in a trance following his brother's heartfelt exchange with his Alpha, simply nods mutely, "I'll be safe, John. Go with her."

Near them, a woman with two young daughters looks into the eyes of her husband she knows she may not see again.

"Goodbye for a little while... only for a little while."

The woman stumbles to the boat with the children, hiding her tears from them. Beneath the false good cheer, the man is choked with emotion, "Hold mummy's hand and be a good girl. That's right."

Some of the women are stoic, others are overwhelmed by emotion and have to be helped into the boats. Sherlock violently pushes John away into the boat as he stumbles into it. John reaches out for him, trusting him as always, and his fingers brush his for a moment. A man scribbles a note and hands it to John, "Please get this to my wife in De Moines, Iowa."

"And lower away!"

The brothers watch at the rail as the boat begins to descend, "That was the last one on this side, brother dear," says Mycroft, turning to him, "A couple more ought to be there on the other side..."

"For God's sake, Mycroft, shut your mouth for once and don't be a prat! I'm not going without you."

Mycroft turns around at him disbelievingly, "He's your mate."

Sherlock frowns, "I know. But we'll make it. We always have."

Mycroft looks down, too ashamed to say anything but sorry, but Sherlock retorts, "Don't think that this changes anything. I still hate you for doing that to me and John. I still hate you for letting me get almost-"

"Oh, big family reconciliation!" Sherlock feels the repulsive, muscular arms of Victor Trevor around him, and tries to reel away. Both brothers spin around at the sight of him, as he smiles from one end to the other of the cheek, "Don't worry sweetpea, I've got an arrangement with a ship's officer here. We can get off safely, okay?"

Victor graces John with a triumphant look, as if staying on the dying ship is going to save him in any manner. Sherlock looks away. Into John's eyes, as they reflect the light from the heavens, from the distress rockets of the ship, at his lips, remembering the feel of them. He closes his eyes for one second, as if deriving his strength from that memory alone. John's face is painful, but Sherlock manages a slight smile, and a reassuring nod.

"My God," Victor exclaims suddenly, "Look at you, Sherlock. You're freezing!"

Even as Victor drapes his own coat around him, his eyes remain hooked onto John.

The ropes going through the pulleys as the seamen start to lower. All sound going away... Wilde giving orders, his lips moving, but John hears only the blood pounding in his ears, this cannot be happening... a rocket bursts above... Sherlock's hair blowing in the chilly wind as he gazes down at John descending away from him... just like the first time John had seen him that afternoon, pained and sad, helpless.

He sees his hand trembling, the tears at the corners of his eyes, and Victor Trevor's arms around him, and cannot believe the unbearable pain he is feeling... He sees Victor's grip tighten on Sherlock's waist. And he sees Sherlock's grip on the edge. His knuckles are white.

Suddenly, John is moving. He gives the slip of paper to Anna and lunges across the women next to him, reaching the gunwale and climbing it, and he hurls himself out of the boat to the rail of the A-Deck promenade, catching it, and scrambling over the rail. The Boat 2 continues down. But John is back on Titanic. He's not leaving Sherlock alone there. And most certainly not with Mycroft and Victor.

"No John!" Sherlock yells as he sees John scramble over, "NOOOO!"

Sherlock spins from the rail, running for the nearest way down to A-Deck.

Victor and Mycroft too have seen him jump. They're willing to die for each other, Victor thinks, and he is overwhelmed by a rage so all consuming that it eclipses all thought. He has never learned how to lose, and he bloody well isn't going to now.

Sherlock bangs through the doors to the foyer and sprints down the stairs. He sees John coming into A-deck foyer, running toward him, calling his name out continuously. They meet at the bottom of the stairs, and collide in an embrace.

"JOHN WATSON, YOU STUPID IMBECILE, IDIOTIC, PIGHEADED, DRUNK, LUNATIC, DEMENTED, DELIRIOUS MAN!" he almost cries, as he holds him in his arms, kissing him and hugging him with however much strength he can manage, "Why did you do that? WHY?!"

All the while, he cradles his head in his palms, kissing him as if he has never kissed him before.

John is still working his breath up, "You jump, I jump, right?" says he, with a stupid grin/grimace. Sherlock smiles too, bringing their foreheads together, "Right. You're so stupid, John!"

"I - I couldn't go, Sherlock! I'm not leaving you on this ship alone, not with Victor or Mycroft!"

Meanwhile, Victor comes in and runs to the railing. Looking down he sees them locked in their embrace. Mycroft comes up behind him, recognising the murderous look on his face, trying to pull him away, trying to make him realise that he has to go now. But Victor whips around, grabbing the pistol from Gregson's waistband, who stands nearby, in one cobra-fast move.

"Sherlock, run!" Mycroft yells.

He runs along the rail and down the stairs. As he reaches the landing above them he raises the gun. screaming in rage, he fires. John spots him, and grabs Sherlock towards him, leading them away. Mycroft is restrained by Gregson, who's proving to be too much of a match for Mycroft.

The carved cherub at the foot of the centre railing explodes. John pulls Sherlock toward the stairs going down to the next lower deck. Victor fires again, running down the steps toward them. A bullet blows out the oak panelling behind John's head as he pulls Sherlock down the next flight of stairs.

The bottom of the Grand Staircase is flooded several feet deep. Sherlock and John come down the stairs two at a time and run straight into the water, fording across the room to where the floor slopes up, until they reach dry footing at the entrance to the dining saloon.

"Come on, Sherlock! Faster!"

Victor reels down the stairs in time to see John and Sherlock splashing through the water toward the dining saloon. He fires twice. Big gouts of spray near them, but he's not a great shot. The water boils up around his feet and he retreats up the stairs a couple of steps, still firing shots from a gun which is clearly devoid of bullets now. Around him the woodwork groans and creaks.

"Enjoy your time together!" He calls after them, and then he remembers it. All the brandies. He has left it in the coat, and he has put the coat on Sherlock. He laughs to himself incredulously, and walks up, thinking that he's still the winner. He has got a life, while John and Sherlock would be dead anyway. It's his only consolation.

* * *

**Some officers on the Titanic actually allowed newlyweds, so that's what I've done! :) But John is a romantic fool.**


	17. He Shall Be Their God Who Is Always With

**Fanfiction doesn't allow more than 10 words for their chapter title. Stupid !**

* * *

**Ch. 17: He Shall Be Their God Who Is Always With Them**

* * *

"John!"

They move among the tables and ornate columns, searching... listening... his eyes tracking rapidly for any followers. It is a sea of tables, and they could be anywhere. A silver serving trolley rolls downhill, bumping into tables and pillars. They're in the First Class Dining Saloon. Sherlock glances behind him. The water is following him into the room, advancing in a hundred foot wide tide. The reception room is now a roiling lake, and the grand staircase is submerged past the first landing. Monstrous groans echo through the ship.

They hear someone splashing down the water, or something probably. John still holds on to his hand, as if to assure himself that he was still there, with him, near him. Sherlock is so cold, and John wants nothing more than wrapping his arms around him to make him a little warm. He realises it suddenly, Sherlock has lesser chances of survival than he does. Being an Omega, his body is more fragile, even if he believes otherwise. The grip on his hand strengthens, and in return Sherlock tightens his grip too. They remain crouched behind a table, somewhere in the middle. They see the water advancing toward them, swirling over the floor. They crawl ahead of it to the next row of tables.

"You should've gone, John," says he quietly, his voice not betraying the state of his breath and his heart, "It would've been easier. For me, for you-"

"Duck, Sherlock!" John pushes him away as a metal cart rolls toward him. It hits a table and the stacks of dishes topple out, exploding across the floor and showering him.

"Oh Lord," he breathes out as he sees the sharp edges of the cracked china.

"We need to go back up," says John, "Up the Grand Staircase-"

"No, Victor is there, no doubt with more firearms. Through the Smoking room, I think. We need to move aft, find a piece of wood or something to hold on to."

"Okay. Listen Sherlock," John's eyes flash into his, soft but fearlessly direct, and Sherlock swallows at the feelings it stirs inside him, "I trust you."

His eyes drift to John's lips for a millisecond, and then even forgetting the fact that the ship is sinking, he leans in for a brief kiss with teeth, tongue and lips. And before Sherlock can tell him how much he loves him and how thankful he is that John is with him, John withdraws, helping him up, "To the aft then, let's go."

Sherlock and John run aft... uphill... entering the galley. Behind them the tables have become islands in a lake... and the far end of the room is flooded up to the ceiling. They run through the galley and John spots the stairs. He starts up but Sherlock grabs his hand, leading him down. Not questioning his judgement at all, John follows him down. Sherlock ushers them into a small clearing and waits, holding his breath. Seconds later, Gregson appears above them. They crouch together on the landing as the valet runs to the stairs. Assuming they have gone up (who wouldn't?) he climbs up them two at a time, and John smiles at him.

"Come on!" Sherlock tries to shed the coat that he is wearing, only to hear clinks of glass. He digs in to find the brandies in it. The cigars have become useless. He thrusts one of them to John, "Here, take a swig of this," while he drinks a mouthful of it, instantly warming him up a little, just a little but it's all he needs.

"Do you think," says he as he sips it down his throat, "it's karma that in spite of all the fight, some of these bottles have remained intact?"

"Maybe," says John, giving it back to Sherlock for safekeeping, "God wants us to live, I guess."

And just then, A torrent of water comes pouring down the stairs like rapids. In seconds it is too powerful for them to go against.

"That way!" Sherlock shouts, "We go with the flow."

Charging the other way down the flooding corridor, they blast up spray with each footstep. At the end of the hall are heavy double doors. As Sherlock approaches them he sees water spraying through the gap between the doors right up to the ceiling. The doors groan and start to crack under the tons of pressure.

"Back! Go back!"

John pivots and runs back the way they came, taking a turn into a cross-corridor just as the double doors blast open. A wall of water thunders into the corridor. They run as a wave blasts around the corner, foaming from floor to ceiling. It gains on them like a locomotive. They make it to a stairway going up, pounding up the steps as white water swirls up behind them. A steel gate blocks the top of the stairs. John slams against the fate, gripping the bars.

"Sherlock, can you?" Says he, knowing the answer. Sherlock shakes his head. There's nothing to open the lock with, not even a makeshift pin. A terrified steward standing guard on the landing above turns to run at the sight of the water thundering up the stairs.

"Wait! Wait!" John yells at the sight of him, "Help us! Unlock the gate."

But the steward runs on. The water wells up around John and Sherlock, pouring through the gate and slamming them against it. In seconds it is up to their waist.

"Help us! Please!"

The steward stops and looks back. He sees Sherlock and John at the gate, their arms reaching through, he sees the water pouring through the gate onto the landing. Seeing the Omega in distress, he swears under his breath as the innate protective instincts take over him and he runs back, slogging against the current. He pulls a key ring from his belt and struggles to unlock the padlock as the water fountains up around them. The lights short out and the landing is plunged into darkness. The water rises over the lock and he's doing it by feel.

"Come on! Come on!"

Sherlock and John are right up against the ceiling... and suddenly the gate gives and swings open. They are pushing through by the force of the water. They make it to stairs on the other side of the landing and follow the steward up to the next deck. They run up seemingly endless stairs as the ship groans and cries around them.

* * *

Victor is rushing through the crowd of people barging towards the ship's Third Class passengers, all of whom have been denied a chance to live. Collapsible A is being prepared for launch, the last boat on the starboard side. He withdraws from the huddle, and looks at his pocket watch. It's two ten in the morning.

Five minutes, he thinks to himself, it'll take him five minutes, and then he makes a run for the nearest suite on A Deck. He rummages through the cupboards, donning a shawl and women's clothes; it's his best bet, not money.

* * *

In the Wireless Room, Bride sees the water advancing menacingly towards them.

"Jack, come on!" he shouts to Philips as he leaves his chair and his Marconigram, "We gotta go!"

Jack Phillips waits for his CQD to go as he stares at the overpowering force of water claiming the ship in its all-consuming grasp. He swallows, and returns to his machine, "You go. I'll get out at the last moment."

Bride stares at him disbelievingly, "What the hell, Jack?"

But Phillips only gives him a crooked smile, "Gotta send S.O.S, right? Go on... I'll come later."

Bride gives him a nod, and scampers out of there. But Phillips only holds on to his chair, promising to himself that he will send the distress signals till the last moment.

"God help me."

* * *

John and Sherlock make it through the First Class Smoking room, working against the gravity and the slop of the ship. The room is empty except for one. An ashtray falls off the table. They are completely out of breath and soaked as they run through, toward the aft revolving door... then Sherlock recognizes him. He sees that his lifebelt is off, lying on a table.

Thomas Andrews stands in front of the fireplace, staring at the large painting above the mantle. The fire is still going in the fireplace. He is staring up at the painting of Plymouth, the port that Titanic was supposed to go through while making its return journey from New York, a future that remains unfulfilled.

"Wait, John! Mr. Andrews?!"

The naval architect slowly turns in his direction as if he cannot believe his eyes, "Oh, Sherlock. John."

"Won't you even make a try for it?"

A tear escapes his left eye as he extends his hand towards the couple, "Go fast, Sherlock and John. The ship will sink in a matter of minutes... I'm sorry, that I couldn't build a stronger ship for you."

"Come with us, sir," John exhales, and takes another deep breath, "You don't deserve to go down... What about your wife?"

"A father is cursed when he outlives his children..." says he, casting his eyes upon the interiors, "Good luck, to you. Take care of young Sherlock." Andrews picks up his lifebelt and hands it to John along with his greatcoat, smiling his goodbye.

"And to you, Mr. Andrews."

With a slight nod, they run through the revolving door to the Palm Court restaurant. Sherlock stuffs some of the brandies in Andrews' coat as they go.

* * *

It's complete chaos and rush in the Port side. Lightoller, with a group of crew and passengers, is trying to get Collapsible B down from the roof. They slide it down a pair of oars leaned against the deck house.

"Hold it! Hold it!"

The crowd is threatening to rush the boat. They push and jostle, yelling and shouting at the officers. The pressure from behind pushes them forward, and one guy falls off the edge of the deck into the water less than ten feet below.

Smith watches the maddening rush with a heavy heart. His lips tremble, and although the reality has sunk in hours ago, he still finds it hard to believe, even as the water climbs up the bow, flooding the engine telegraph room. An Irishwoman comes up to him, cradling her baby in her arms, "Captain, where should I go? Please."

She looks at her in shock, and to the little life in her arms sleeping peacefully, sucking its thumb in sleep. He doesn't trust his judgement anymore. He can see for himself what his decision has done. He does a take at the water approaching them, and stumbles away, mumbling an incoherent apology. A seaman pulls off his lifebelt and catches up to Captain Smith as he walks to the bridge. He proffers it, but Smith seems to stare through him. Without a word he turns and goes onto the bridge. He enters the enclosed wheelhouse and closes the door behind him. He is alone, surrounded by the gleaming brass instruments. He seems to inwardly collapse.

Standing near the wheel, he watches the black water climbing the windows of the enclosed wheelhouse. He has the stricken expression of a damned soul on Judgement Day. The windows burst suddenly and a wall of water edged with shards of glass slams into Smith. The seaman sees him disappear in a vortex of foam.

At a distance, the band finishes the waltz. They're scared to death upon seeing the rushing water advancing mercilessly towards them. Wallace Hartley looks at the orchestra members.

"Right, that's it then. Gentlemen, it has been a privilege playing with you tonight."

They say their goodbyes hurriedly, in the hope of finding a last boat, "So long, old chap."

"Good luck, Wally."

They leave him, walking forward along the deck. Hartley sees the water and with a resolute face, towering over it fearlessly, he puts his violin to his chin and bows the first notes of "Nearer My God to Thee". One by one the band members turn, hearing the lonely melody. Without a word they walk back and take their rightful places, the way they always stand in the Dining Saloon during every dinner. They join in with Hartley, filling out the sound so that it reaches all over the ship on this still night, keeping out the cold.

In the smoking room, Andrews stands like a statue. He pulls out his pocket watch and checks the time. Then he opens the face of the mantle clock and adjusts it to the correct time: 2:12 a.m. Everything must be correct.

On the bed, lying side by side, fully clothed, in a first class cabin are elderly Ida and Isidor Strauss, staring at the ceiling, holding hands like young lovers. Water pours into the room through a doorway. It swirls around the bed, two feet deep rising fast. Isidor leans in, kissing her, smiling.

On the port side, Collapsible B is picked up by water. Working frantically, the men try to detach it from the falls so the ship won't drag it under. Colonel Gracie hands Lightoller a pocket knife and he saws furiously at the ropes as the water swirls around his legs. The boat, still upside down, is swept off the ship. Men start diving in, swimming to stay with it.

In Collapsible A, Victor has managed to gain entry into one of the last boats by posing as a woman. He watches the water rising around the men as they work, scrambling to get the ropes cut so the ship won't drag the collapsible under. The boat is hit by a wave as the bow plunges suddenly. It partially swamps the boat, washing it along the deck. Over a hundred passengers are plunged into the freezing water and the area around the boat becomes a frenzy of splashing, screaming people.

As men are trying to climb into the boat, Victor grabs an oar and pushes them back into the water, squealing in a feminine voice, "Get back! You'll swamp us!"

The boat is whirled like a leaf in the currents around the sinking ship. It slams against the side of the forward funnel. Victor shouts, "Row! Row you bastards!"

People are drawn up against the grating of a stokehold vent as water pours through it. The force of tons of water roaring down the ship traps him against it, and they are dragged down under the surface as the ship sinks. Men struggles to free himself but cannot.

Suddenly there is a concussion deep in the bowels of the ship as a furnace explodes and a blast of hot air belches out of the ventilator, ejecting some of the other men. They surface in a roar of foam and keeps swimming, thanking God.

Water roars through the doors and windows, cascading down the stairs like a rapids. John Jacob Astor is swept down the marble steps to A-Deck, which is already flooded, a roiling vortex. He grabs the headless cherub at the bottom of the staircase and wraps his arms around it.

Astor looks up in time to see the 30 foot glass dome overhead exploding inwards with the wave of water washing over it. A Niagara of sea water thunders down into the room, blasting through the first class opulence. It is the Armageddon of elegance.

* * *

Sherlock and John run out of the Palm court into a dense crowd. John pushes his way to the rail and looks at the state of the ship. The bridge is under water and there is chaos on deck. John helps Sherlock into the lifebelt, tying it around him tightly. People stream around them, shouting and pushing.

"One two three, go!"

They take another mouthful of the whisky, and dump it into their coats. Sherlock sees the overturned lifeboats in the water, just like he had predicted in the afternoon. Right on cue, John asks him, "Can we make it?"

"We have to. The ship's suction is just going to pull us down."

"We won't make it far enough, not with zero oars."

They clamber over the A-Deck aft rail. Then, using all his strength, Sherlock lowers John toward the deck below, holding on with one hand. He dangles, then falls. Sherlock jumps down behind him neatly. They join a crush of people literally clawing and scrambling over each other to get down the narrow stairs to the well deck... the only way aft.

Seeing that the stairs are impossible, Sherlock climbs over the B-Deck railing followed by John. He lowers him again, and Sherlock falls in a heap. John hauls him to his feet. John drops down and the two of them push through the crowd across the well deck. Near them, at the rail, people are jumping into the water.

"Last chance," says John, looking down at the water below him. Sherlock swallows at the sight of the boat already being pulled in by the suction. He realises that it is now an impossibility.

"No! We keep moving aft. We have to stay on the ship as long as possible."

The stay cables along the top of the funnel snap, and they lash like steel whips down into the water. Victor watches as the funnel topples from its mounts. Falling like a temple pillar twenty eight feet across it crashes into the water and onto the overturned lifeboats with a tremendous splash. People swimming underneath it disappear in an instant.

Mycroft, a few feet away, is hurled back by a huge wave. He comes up, gasping... still swimming. The water pouring into the open end of the funnel draws in several swimmers. The funnel sinks, disappearing, but-

Hundreds of tons of water pour down through the 30 foot hole where the funnel stood, thundering down into the belly of the ship. A whirlpool forms, a hole in the ocean, like at enormous toiler-flush. people swim in a frenzy as the vortex draws them in. They are sucked down like a spider going down a drain.

Mycroft, nearby, swims like hell as more people are sucked down behind him. He manages to get clear. He's going to live no matter what it takes.

John and Sherlock struggle to climb the well deck stairs as the ship tilts. Hundreds of people are already on the poop deck, and more are pouring up every second. Sherlock and John cling together as they struggle across the tilting deck. People are jumping from the well deck, the poop deck, the gangway doors. Some hit debris in the water and are hurt or killed. Wilde and Lightoller throw deck chairs into the sea, hoping for people to hold on to them, to help them survive. Murdoch joins his fellow officers from the starboard side, "Lowe's gone with Boat 14," he reports to Wilde faithfully.

As the bow goes down, the stern rises. Mycroft gapes as the giant bronze propellers rise out of the water like gods of the deep. His eyes reflect the ship's stern hanging up in the air and he fights against his instincts to go and save his little brother. He has seen the look in John's eyes. John could do anything to save him. The image is shocking, unbelievable, unthinkable. He stares at the spectacle, unable to frame it or put it into any proportion.

"Mr. Holmes!"

There's a boat coming towards him, with Lightoller in charge. He recognises Mycroft as the gentleman who had been helping the women onboard, "Come on, sir, I've got you!"

Mycroft says his thanks to anyone who listens. His goodness is his salvation.

* * *

In the Wireless room, Phillips keys his S.O.S. furiously, as the water advances around him, engulfing him slowly. On the poop deck, John and Sherlock struggle aft as the angle increases. Hundreds of passengers, clinging to every fixed object on deck, huddle on their knees around a padre, who has his voice raised in prayer. They are praying, sobbing, or just staring at nothing, their minds blank with dread. Pulling himself from handhold to handhold, John tugs Sherlock aft along the deck.

"Come on, Sherlock. We can't expect God to do all the work for us."

They struggle on, pushing through the praying people. A man loses his footing ahead and slides toward them. Sherlock catches him before he can go any further.

"Thank ya, sir!" says he, feeling grateful. They make it to the stern rail, right at the base of the flagpole. They grip the rail, jammed in between other people. It is the spot where John had pulled Sherlock back onto the ship, just three nights... and a lifetime... ago.

Above the wailing and sobbing, the padre's voice carries, cracking with emotion.

"...and I saw new heavens and a new earth. The former heavens and the former earth had passed away and the sea was no longer.

The lights flicker, threatening to go out. John grips Sherlock as the stern rises into a night sky ablaze with stars.

"...I also saw a new Jerusalem, the holy city coming down out of heaven from God, beautiful as a bride prepared to meet her husband. I heard a loud voice from the throne ring out this is God's dwelling among men. He shall dwell with them and they shall be his people and He shall be their God who is always with them."

Shivering, Sherlock stares about him at the faces of the doomed. Near them are the Hooper family, clinging together stoically. Molly looks at him and John briefly, and her eyes are infinitely sad. Sherlock sees a young mother next to him, clutching her five year old son, who is crying in terror. He feels overwhelmed by the emotion and the terror in him.

"Shhh. Don't cry. It'll be over soon, darling. It'll all be over soon."

The padre's voice wafts through, now strong and steady, "He shall wipe every tear from their eyes. And there shall be no more death or mourning, crying out or pain, for the former world has passed away."

"Sherlock," says John, looking into his eyes, smiling weakly, "This is where we first met."

He looks around him. It is indeed. How mind can play tricks into making Sherlock see the death around him, while John only sees the time and the moments they have spent together. He wants to tell John that they aren't going to die, that they'll make through this. But all he does is wrap a stronger arm around his Alpha's waist, kissing his forehead. A false promise is much worse than a promise never made.

"Okay," says John, trying to be cheerful for Sherlock's sake, but the latter can feel the dread in him, "I'll try a sermon of - of my own. Sh-Sherlock Holmes, we're gonna - we're gonna get out of here, hmm?"

The lights flicker, and they finally go out. Forever.

"Okay," says he, looking around at the darkness, "That's... not a good start." Despite himself, Sherlock and John share a quick, quiet laugh at that, "John, I..."

"No, YOU listen to me, you clever, clever... idiot. We... we're going to get out of here.. and then... we're gonna go to New York, okay? You're gonna... you're gonna go to university, and I'm gonna go to medical college - and then - we're gonna solve lots of... crimes together, okay?" With that, John plants a kiss on his lips, "We are going to, alright?"

Sherlock brings their foreheads together, shivering with cold, "And then we'll sue White Star Line."

John giggles, "Yes, we'll d-do that. And then... you can... insult all the New Yorkers' in - intelligence all day, okay?"

Sherlock simply holds on to him, feeling the tension seep back into him just as John stops talking.

* * *

In one of the boats, Bruce Ismay has his back to the ship, unable to watch the great steamer die. He is catatonic with remorse, his mind overloaded. He can avert his eyes, but he can't block out the sounds of dying people and machinery.

Near the third funnel a man clutches the ship's rail. He stares down as the deck splits right between his feet. A yawning chasm opens with a thunder of breaking steel. People are clutching the railing on the roof of the Officers' Mess. They watch in horror as the ship's structure rips apart right in front of them.

Gregson, of those people, gapes down into a widening maw, seeing straight down into the bowels of the ship, amid a booming concussion like the sound of artillery. People falling into the widening crevasse look like dolls. The stay cables on the funnel part and snap across the decks like whips, ripping off davits and ventilators. A man is hit by a whipping cable. Another cable smashes the rail next to Lovejoy and it rips free. He falls backward into the pit of jagged metal.

Fires, explosions and sparks light the yawning chasm as the hull splits down through nine decks to the keel. The sea pours into the gaping wound. In the engine rooms, it is a thundering black hell. Men scream as monstrous machinery comes apart around them, steel frames twisting like candy. Their torches illuminate the roaring, foaming demon of water as it races at the through the machines. Trying to climb they are overtaken in seconds.

The stern half of the ship falls back toward the water. On the poop deck everyone screams as they feel themselves plummeting. The sound goes up like the roar of fans at a stadium when a goal is scored. Swimming in the water directly under the stern a few unfortunates shriek as they see the keel coming down on them like God's boot heel. The massive stern section falls back almost level, thundering down into the sea and pushing out a mighty wave of displaced water.

John and Sherlock struggle to hold onto the stern rail. They feel the ship seemingly right itself. Some of those praying think it is salvation. Cries of "we're saved" erupt from everywhere. But Sherlock simply looks at John and shakes his head, grimly as the horrible mechanics play out.

Pulled down by the awesome weight of the flooded bow, the buoyant stern tilts up rapidly. They feel the rush of ascent as the fantail angles up again. Everyone is clinging to benches, railings, ventilators... anything to keep from sliding as the stern lifts.

The stern goes up and up, past 45 degrees, then past sixty. People start to fall, sliding and tumbling. They skid down the deck, screaming and flailing to grab onto anything. They wrench other people loose and pull them down as well. There is a pile-up of bodies at the forward rail.

"We have to move!" says John, climbing over the stern rail and reaching back for Sherlock, "Come on, I've got you! I won't let go!"

John pulls him over the rail. It is the same place he had pulled him over the rail three nights earlier, only this time it's the other direction. Sherlock gets over just as the railing is going horizontal, and the deck vertical. John grips his hand fiercely.

"Is that your... standard dialogue?" Sherlock attempts to joke.

"I'd stop if we weren't thrown off ships for a change. Brandy now, one two three, go!"

The two of them take another mouthful of brandy, and grin to themselves, despite their situation. The whisky burns their throats, giving them just the warmth they need.

"We're... going to... have to finish from... the glass ones first," Sherlock points out, "Freezing water below."

"You're trying to get me drunk? Now?!"

The stern is now straight up in the air... a rumbling black monolith standing against the stars. It hangs there like that for a long grace note, its buoyancy stable. Sherlock lies on the railing, looking down fifteen stories to the boiling sea at the base of the stern section. People near them, who didn't climb over, hang from the railing, their legs dangling over the long drop. They fall one by one, plummeting down the vertical face of the poop deck. Some of them bounce horribly off deck benches and ventilators.

"If it helps save you from the cold, yes. At any rate, it isn't that bad."

John and Sherlock lie side by side on what was the vertical face of the hull, gripping the railing, which is now horizontal. John stares down terrified at the black ocean waiting below to claim them. Sherlock looks to his left and sees a man in a baker uniform, crouching on the hull, holding onto the railing. It is a surreal moment. He holds up the brandy to him, "Want some?"

The baker lets out a shuddery white exhale, and takes it with a thanks, nodding them a greeting, "Helluva night."

The final relentless plunge begins as the stern section floods. Looking down a hundred feet to the water, they drop like an elevator with its cables snapped, as if they are in freefall. The roar of the ocean is deafening, but Sherlock manages to yell as loudly and as fast as he can manage, "Take a deep breath and hold it right before we go into the water... The ship WILL suck us down... Kick for the surface... and keep kicking... Don't let go of my hand. Like you said, we're gonna make it, John. Trust me."

John stares at the water coming up at them, and grips his hand harder, "I trust you."

Below them the poop deck is disappearing. The plunge gathers speed, the boiling surface engulfs the docking bridge and then rushes up the last few metres.

"Ready? Now!"

The stern descends into the boiling sea. Where the ship stood, now there is nothing. Only the black ocean, restless and churning.

* * *

**I think I'm a very bad person, and that's why I'll be doing whatever happens in the next chapter**


	18. Is There A 'John Watson' On Your List?

**I really feel like I haven't done proper justice to the sinking. In 'Titanic', it's half the movie, while in here, it's only five chapters out of eighteen.**

* * *

The occupants of Boat 8 watch as the stern section of the ship bobbles in the sea like a cork, and then sinks down rapidly. The sight is reflected in the Countess' glassy eyes, who beckons to seaman Jones about going back to rescue some of those in the water. But only three other passengers agree with them, and seaman Jones has no choice but to acquiesce. The women won't meet the Countess' eyes. They huddle into their ermine wraps.

"We would be at risk of the boat being capsized by desperate swimmers," says one of them, her eyes full of tears.

The Countess and the seaman exchange apprehensive looks, "Ladies, if any of us are saved, remember _I_ wanted to go back... I would rather drown with them than leave them."

Some of them laughed sarcastically, dismissing the suggestion as hypothetical. One of the stewards aboard pulls out a fag and starts smoking to keep himself warm. Some of them cough at the unwelcome smoke, complaining silently. But the steward only scoffs at her, "If you don't stop talking through that hole in your face there will be one less in the boat!"

The Countess clears her throat, "Give me a hand, ladies, and keep rowing the boat. It'll keep you warmer, and it is a much better alternative than choking on smoke."

Seaman Jones throws that steward a dirty look, "Aye, men! Let's row!"

* * *

Sherlock holds on to John as they kick hard and violently for the surface. Bodies are whirled and spun around them, some limp as dolls, others struggling spasmodically, as the vortex sucks them down and tumbles them. At the moment, the water is not very icy, it's scalding hot and boiling, due to the steam from the boilers. Sherlock grabs Andrews' overcoat that John is wearing, and digs into the pockets, throwing away the empty bottles of whisky that are weighing them down. They hold each other tightly, pulling themselves up.

And then, Sherlock feels a jerk behind him, and feels the bindings of his lifebelt choking him. A man is holding onto the lifebelt, trying to save himself from being pulled down. His fingers reach instinctively to loosen the pressure against his chest, and suddenly John is out of his grasp, and is being sucked away from him, downwards, towards the descent of the ship. He tries to scream his name, but only a torrent of saltwater enters his lungs. He kicks his leg furiously, tugging at the lifebelt. The water around him is of a dirty and wicked green shade, and suddenly the searing pain of the cold is attacking him again, pain that is beyond any meaning and that knows no understanding, crawling through under his skin and obliterating all thoughts.

He manages to push the man away, and extends his arms around to feel for John. He can't open his eyes, but before he can manage, he rises up, and his nose and slowly his shoulders are out of the water, water that is full of a roiling chaos of screaming, thrashing people. Over a thousand people are now floating where the ship went down. Some are stunned, gasping for breath. Others are crying, praying, moaning, shouting... screaming. It's terrifying to come out of the water without John, without his hand in his.

"John!" he manages harshly, still not opening his eyes, saltwater sticking to every inch of his body, and making its way treacherously into his eyes. But he barely has time to gasp for air before people are clawing at him. People driven insane by the water, 4 degrees below freezing, a cold so intense it is indistinguishable from death by fire. He tries to cough, get the water out of his lungs, but his mouth is only partially open before he is pushed underwater again. Someone grabs him, and pushes him under, trying to climb on top of him... senselessly trying to get out of the water, to climb onto anything. He tries to ascend upwards, but a brutal pair of hands push him underneath again. He manages to somehow elbow that man between his legs and rise up again.

"JOHN!"

But John is nowhere to be seen, among the waters swarming with dying people. For the first time, he is in a fix. He needs to search for John, and that might keep him warm as well, but he has no wish to be pulled underwater again, and he needs to keep his strength with him for as long as possible. But he also cannot wait in one place, because the hypothermia would set in more rapidly then, and John would be lost to him. So, he keeps searching, pushing people away from him, calling John's name desperately. He tries to swim, but his strokes are not as effective as they should've been because of his lifejacket. He breaks out of the clot of people. He has to find some kind of flotation, anything to get himself out of the freezing water. A shot of pain bursts out through his chest and he gasps at the intensity of it, just as strong as the pain he had felt when John had first entered him. An instinctive panic runs through him.

"John!"

"Sherlock!"

He frantically turns around, the sound seems to have come from everywhere around him, but John is still nowhere to be seen. All about him there is a tremendous wailing, screaming and moaning... a chorus of tormented souls. And beyond that... nothing but black water stretching to the horizon. The sense of isolation and hopelessness is overwhelming.

"John?!" His voice breaks at the last note, the cold has begun to take over him. He simply looks around for something floating. Some debris... wood... anything. But his efforts don't take his mind off the wailing around them. He carefully scans the water, panting, barely able to draw a breath. Someone beside him screams all of a sudden, and Sherlock turns around to find himself staring right in the face of the devil.

It is a black bulldog, swimming right at him like a sea monster in the darkness, its coal eyes bugging. It motors past him, like it is headed for Newfoundland. Beyond it Sherlock sees something in the water. It is a piece of wooden debris, intricately carved. He pushes himself up and slithers onto it belly down.

At least out of the water, he attempts to sit on it, so that it gives him a higher ground to scan for his Alpha. He cups his palm and calls out loudly over the din, "John!"

The pain in his chest becomes worse as he calls his name, and it feels as if someone is stabbing him through his heart. His breath floats around him in a cloud as he pants from exertion. A man swims toward him, homing in on the piece of debris. But when he tries to get on that door, it tilts and submerges, almost dumping Sherlock off. In a desperate attempt to live, Sherlock pushes the man away, and clambers onto it again, warning him off.

"There's plenty of debris out there. This one's enough for me and my Alpha."

The man clings to it, keeping his upper body out of the water as best he can, "Let me try at least, or I'll die soon."

"You'll die quicker if you come any closer," he growls, and tries to row in the direction where he and John had been separated. He sees the ship's officer Wilde nearby, holding onto a piece of debris. He is blowing his whistle furiously, knowing the sound will carry over the water for miles. He is shivering uncontrollably, his lips blue and his teeth chattering. Sherlock rows towards him, using his forearms as oars, "Mr. Wilde! Bring these... two together, then you... can get on... too," he clutches his chest, and his fingers reach over to the bite that John had made on his skin earlier. It feels like it is starting to fade. Sherlock is sure he is just imagining it, although that has never imagined things. John is somewhere out there, searching for him as well. If he could've survived this long, John surely had. He's an Alpha, his body and his tolerance are much stronger than his.

"Mr. Holmes," says he, his whole body shivering, "Than-thank you!" As Wilde somehow manages to get onto the makeshift raft, people around them are still screaming, calling to the lifeboats.

"Come back! Please! We know you can hear us. For God's sake!"

Panic-stricken, Sherlock wants to ask the man about John, but he knows that there would be many around with the description of short blond young Alpha, not that Wilde would've noticed given that anyone else would be too busy to save their own lives. So, he does the only things he can do, he searches for John.

Twenty boats nearby, most half full, float in the darkness. None of them make a move. In Boat 1, Sir Cosmo and Lucile Duff-Gordon sit with ten other people in a boat that is two thirds empty. They are two hundred yards from the screaming in the darkness. One of the stokers says in a voice that is drained of vitality, "We should do something."

Lucile squeezes Cosmo's hand and pleads him with her eyes. She is terrified.

"It's out of the question," says Sir Cosmo. The crew members, intimidated by a nobleman, acquiesce. They hunch guiltily, hoping the sound will stop soon.

* * *

Sherlock drifts under the blazing stars. The water is glassy, with only the faintest undulating swell. Sherlock can actually see the stars reflecting on the black mirror of the sea. He is still looking for John, although his voice is almost gone now. He squeezes the water out of his long coat, tucking it in tightly around his legs, rubbing his arms. His face is chalk with in the darkness. There's a low moaning in the darkness around him. Beside him, Officer Wilde has stopped moving. He is slumped against the raft in his lifejacket, looking almost asleep. He has died of exposure already. But Sherlock doesn't give up, despite how quiet it is. He takes in a last swig of the brandy.

"J-ohn," he calls out, his cracked voice not even reaching a couple of metres away. He knows that the boats won't come back anytime soon, not with the first-class and their purses onboard. He's having trouble getting the breath to even open his mouth and utter a single sound. The pain had increased exponentially over the hours that have rolled by. Maybe, John managed a boat for himself, and got on it. Sherlock wants to believe it, but his rational mind knows that John will never get onboard without him. He can't feel his legs, or his toes. Maybe the pain is not the Bond dissolving, maybe it is just John's distress upon not having found his Omega, and that of Sherlock's too, combining together and travelling through the Bond. The ache is over all his body, only rendered worse by the cold, but it is so very much excruciating in his chest that it blinds all the other. His voice trembles with the cold which is working its way to his heart. But his eyes are unwavering as he stares into the distance, alert to any movement. For the first time, being alone truly terrifies him. And being without John almost makes him wish he were dead.

_We... we're going to get out of here.. and then... we're gonna go to New York, okay? You're gonna... you're gonna go to university, and I'm gonna go to medical college - and then - we're gonna solve lots of... crimes together, okay?_

He laughs weakly at John's words, but it's like a gasp of fear. They were supposed to live together in New York. He was supposed to go to university. John was supposed to go to medical college. And then he would be... a detective, just like John had suggested once.

All that seems uncertain now. It is quiet and lonely around Sherlock, except for the lapping of the water. A small tear escapes his eyes at the intensity of the pain as he writhes slowly on the raft, his entire figure contorting with the ache inside him, and the tiny drop of water instantly freezes at the corner of his eyes.

A shooting star flares, a line of light across the heavens. Sherlock has no wish to make anymore. John has proved it to him on that party night. Shooting stars don't work.

He raises his fingers to his lips with a mountain of effort, unabashed for feeling so sentimental in the last moments of his life. His face is pale, like the faces of the dead, in a semi-hallucinatory state. His hair is dusted with frost crystals, frozen to the wood under him. His breathing is so shallow as his fingers trailing over his lips, remembering the feel of John's mouth over his when they had kissed for the first time. His eyes track down from the stars to the water.

This is it, he thinks. He has never expected a long life for himself anyway. Not when he had thought that he wouldn't get out of his marriage to Victor. And surely not when he had flirted with the idea of being a detective. He only wishes he could've told John how much he loves him, and how thankful he is to him for being his saviour. He only wishes that he could've known him since the day he was born, so that they could've laughed more together, made love together, and if only he could've shown John more of his experiments. There is just so much left to say, and that's what hurts the most in every bone of his body, to die a dissatisfied and meaningless death. The only thing he is thankful for is that John won't have to see him die.

"I love you, John..." he calls out to the silence around him, hoping irrationally that his voice will carry itself to John.

* * *

"Now make sure that's tied up nice and tight!"

Fifth Officer Lowe, the baby-faced but impetuous young Welshman, turns towards the slowly dying noise in the sea. For one second, he frets over in his mind, and then in a flash, a decision crosses through him as his jaw clenches, "Right, listen to me men. We have to go back! I want you to transfer from this boat into that one right now."

The seamen look at him indecisively, at which he only barks at them, "As quick as you can please."

He gets the Boats 10, 12 and Collapsible A together with his own boat. A demon of energy, he has had everyone hold the boats together and is transferring passengers from his boat into the others, to empty his boat for a rescue attempt.

"Bring in your oars over there! Tie these two boats together as well!"

As the women step gingerly across the other boats, Lowe sees a figure in shawl in too much of a hurry. He rips the shawl off, and finds himself staring into the face of Victor Trevor. He angrily shoves him into another boat and turns to his crew of three.

"Right, man the oars," he turns back to the black sea ahead of them, hoping for some survivors as the beam of his electric torch dances across the darkness like a searchlight.

* * *

They arrive upon a sea of bodies rather than water, like a wave has suddenly struck them dead. Lowe and his officers look about for any survivors, taking care not to hit the bodies with their oars.

The torch illuminates the floating debris, a poignant trail of flotsam: a violin, a child's wooden soldier, a framed photo of a steerage family. Daniel Marvin's wooden Biograph camera.

"Right ahead sir."

Then, their white lifebelts bobbing in the darkness like signposts, the first bodies come into the torch's beam. The people are dead but not drowned, killed by the freezing water. Some look like they could be sleeping. Others stare with frozen eyes at the stars.

"Do you see any moving?"

"No, sir. None."

"Check them."

Soon the pileup of the bodies are so thick the seamen cannot row. They hit the oars on the heads of floating men and women. Every face is rimmed with growing frost upon them. One seaman throws up. Lowe sees a mother floating with her arms frozen around her lifeless baby. The searchlight dances a beam quite a distance away as Lowe's hands are shaking. It is the worst moment of his life.

"We waited too long."

"Is anyone alive out there?" One of the crew calls out to the emptiness, making Lowe snap out of his reverie. Apart from regret, fear is the most dominant emotion flooding through him, as if he were going through the land of the damned, and as if the souls of all the men and women would drag him down into the sea any time.

"Can anybody hear me? Hello?"

Sherlock's eyes are closed, as he feels the last reserves of his energy leaving him. He cannot feel surprise for having lived for so long, maybe it was the brandy which helped. The pain has stopped ages ago, and now he feels nothing. After having felt so much sentiment over the past week, the sensation of not feeling anything leaves him empty. The frost has plastered his eyelids together. The slow and distorted voices of the men reach his ears as he slowly cranes his neck upwards. The silhouette of a boat crossing the stars, like he's in a dream where everything moves in slow-motion. He sees men in it, rowing so slowly the oars lift out of the syrupy water, leaving weightless pearls floating in the air in his vision.

A boat.

Then the lookout flashes his torch toward Sherlock and the light flares across the water, silhouetting the bobbing corpses in between. It flicks past his motionless form and moves on. The boat is 50 feet away, and moving past him. The men look away, mistaking Sherlock's lifeless form for dead.

"No," he calls out, barely audible.

John. John might have been picked up. That's why the pain had stopped. Maybe the Bond was still there, he needed to see John, then he would know. He looks at the boat. It is further away now, the voices fainter. Sherlock watches them go, trying to shout out to them that he is alive.

"Come back. Come back!"

He raises his head suddenly, a sudden spurt of energy running through him at the thought of seeing John again, at the thought of suddenly surprising him like jumping out of a cake. He snaps his neck towards the receding boat, cracking the ice as he rips his hair off the wood. Sherlock calls out again, but his voice is so weak that they don't hear him. The boat is invisible now, the torch light a star impossibly far away. He struggles to draw breath, calling again.

"I'm coming, John. I'm coming... I'm coming..."

He grabs the whistle from Wilde's lips who is lying just beside him, and blows into it as hard as he can, with all the strength in his body. Its sound slaps across the still water. He imagines Lowe whip around at the sound of the whistle, and the light of the torch hit his face harshly.

"Come about!" comes Lowe's strong voice as the boat seems to turn about. Sherlock keeps blowing as the boat comes to him. He is still blowing when Lowe takes the whistle from his mouth as the Alphas haul him into the boat. He slips into unconsciousness and they scramble to cover him with blankets...

"John," is the last word that leaves his lips.

* * *

Hours later, Sherlock stares blankly into the lightening sky, lying swaddled in blankets. Only his face is visible, white as the moon. The Alpha next to him jumps up, pointing and yelling. Soon everyone is looking and shouting excitedly. Sherlock's fingers reach out for the cigarette in the man's fingers, who he looks surprised but then acquiesces. He drinks in the smoke, as if filling himself with life. John wasn't going to see him like this, he reasons.

Lowe lights a green flare and waves it as everyone shouts and cheers. Golden light washes across the white boats, which float in a calm sea reflecting the rosy sky. All around them, like a convoy of sailing ships, are icebergs. Carpathia sits nearby, as boats row toward her.

Sherlock is slowly helped up the rope ladder to the Carpathia's gangway doors by Lowe and his crew, and by the crew of Carpathia. He looks around him. It's all steerage, except for one.

Bruce Ismay climbs aboard. He has the face and eyes of a damned soul. As he walks along the hall, guided by a crewman toward the doctor's cabin, he passes rows of seated and standing widows. He must run the gauntlet of their accusing gazes.

"Ex-excuse me," Sherlock manages to speak, "Is there a 'John Watson' on your list?"

The steward checks the list, "I'm afraid not, sir. Perhaps his boat hasn't arrived yet. This way, sir."

Perhaps.

* * *

**Sorry if you didn't like the idea of Sherlock staying alone in the water. I tried to make this stick to the post-Reichenbach canon... like Sherlock "jumping out of a cake"... well, you know...**


	19. Checkmate

**All karma against Victor sets in as Sherlock takes his revenge at the end.**

**A very different chapter from that of Titanic. I don't know whether in a good way or a bad way. Some of the readers wanted revenge at a very early stage. So I waited till it became the worst sort of thing Sherlock could do to Victor despite not having any power or money.**

**Mostly dialogue. Please forgive any historical errors here.**

* * *

It is the afternoon of the 15th. All the lifeboats have arrived. Victor is searching the faces of the widows lining the deck, still looking for Sherlock while he has changed into a tuxedo. The deck of Carpathia is crammed with quiet and huddled people, and even some of the recovered lifeboats of Titanic. On a hatch cover sits an enormous pile of lifebelts.

He keeps walking toward the stern. Seeing Victor's tuxedo, a steward approaches him.

"You won't find any of your people here, sir. It's all steerage."

Victor ignores him and goes amongst this wrecked group, looking under shawls and blankets at one bleak face after another. Sherlock is sipping hot tea, just about to go and ask a steward about John for the second time. He senses his presence behind him, the revolting and dominant scent of his, and he quickly hides his face, sudden and very welcome anger bubbling through him. He has a temptation to turn around and declare to Victor that he was alive, with John as well, but hiding is the better alternative. So he looks away, wrapping his figure into something smaller, and drawing his shoulder in.

Soon he finds his scent receding and does one take at his face. Victor looks surprisingly lost and heartbroken, stricken with emotion. But Sherlock fixes his retreating figure with a glare as cold and hard as the ice which changed their lives. He's glad that his Omega scent is gone for the time being. And he knows that it'll intensify after a week. Finding some requisite energy in him, he stands up, tall and trying to look imposing as always, Victor's coat still on his shoulders, and goes over to the steward who was currently being accosted by a sobbing Scottish woman.

"Do you have a 'John Watson' in there?"

The steward checks his list bottom to up, "None, sir, I'm afraid."

For some reason, Sherlock attempts a placating smile, but ends up only stretching his mouth insincerely across his cheeks before dropping the expression altogether. But far from convinced, he wraps a piece of cloth across his cheeks, only his eyes scanning the whole place, and he sets out to look for John himself. John might not have his name. Maybe even he was searching for him, like Sherlock was. Even Sherlock has not given his name in the list. So he does the only thing he can within his power. He hides his face and searches, only hoping that his eyes won't give him away, making his figure appear smaller by slouching his shoulder so that his height would be indistinguishable.

He sees Lady Cosmo organise a group photograph on Carpathia's deck with all those rescued in Boat 1 wearing their lifejackets for the camera while the rest of the survivors watch incredulously. He sees her smile widely into it as Sherlock walks away from them, wondering what wrong sort of people were picked up by the rescue boats.

A complete contrast to the appearance of the lack of empathy from the Duff-Gordons is the Countess of Rothes, who is knitting little clothes for babies a couple of metres away, whilst helping the steerage immensely by providing them with hot water, forgetful of her own sufferings and exhaustion. A stewardess beside helps her hush a crying baby, "You have made yourself famous by rowing the boats, ma'am."

But the Countess shakes her head gracefully, "I hope not; I have done nothing."

Sherlock walks through the lounge in Carpathia, and takes the surreal scene into his eyes, searing into his brain. There's a First Class woman badly affected by cold, supported by Quartermaster Oliver. Seeing her still shivering, he takes his socks off, and provides the woman with those. She frowns, instantly rejecting them, upon which he says, "I assure you, ma'am, they are perfectly clean. I just put them on the previous morning."

The woman stares at him in horror and is even more determined not to take them. Beside them, he sees the ship's officer Herb Pitman, looking suicidal and haunted by guilt at having not gone back, at not having saved his fellow officers and shipmates: Wilde, Moody and Murdoch, who had insisted that he get on the boat. He looks up at Sherlock, who saunters past him, looking almost like the Grim Reaper and cowers.

A few chairs away, he happens to come upon a group of First Class women bickering to each other over minor annoyances, and comparing how bored they were in those lifeboats. Suddenly, Sherlock wants to humiliate them. How dare they talk about such things when more than 1500 were dying in the sea, while Sherlock was still searching for John, while a mother kept her arms out of the water to keep her little baby from freezing, and while Officer Wilde resolutely kept blowing his whistle with all his strength, while he remained in fear than his Bond with John was breaking? He still passes away, like a shadow among the First Class.

His eyes finally find a familiar figure. He sucks in a breath when he realises that it is Mycroft and Andrea, sitting with Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft is beyond all human emotion, his shoulders hunched, his eyes staring into nothingness and filled with only one thing: guilt, outside of time, outside of himself, drowned in his grief. Andrea is stoic, as she makes no attempt to say anything, knowing that Mycroft cannot hear her. All she can do is hold on to his hand, providing him with grounding contact. Mrs. Hudson sobs quietly into a handkerchief, and Mycroft doesn't even try and placate her.

Tearing his eyes away, and looking into the face of every hunched figure, Sherlock walks past the grieving people. After taking a full tour of the ship, when he cannot find him, he sits down on the deck, curling into a ball against the wall, all alone and weak from the exertion, all spirit leaving him. John is not there on Carpathia.

He checks with another steward. He asks whether if there's a possibility of anyone being picked up by another ship. The steward says that they were doing everything that they could.

He checks with another. There's no 'John Watson'.

The Bond, believing in neither logic nor evidence, begs to differ.

* * *

Thursday, 18th April, 1912, 9:25 pm

Sherlock stands at the railing of the Carpathia, gazing up blankly at the Statue of Liberty welcoming him to New York with her glowing torch and optimism. In his mind, he is more than just broken. He is angry at the injustice, at the anomaly of the Bond still existing. After mourning John for three days, all he can feel is hatred towards Victor Trevor, for making John jump back to the ship. He hates White Star Line for providing less number of lifeboats. He hates the Mauretania for not being more luxurious, for making Victor change their reservations at the last minute. He hates the full house which made John win the tickets on Titanic. He hates his suicide attempt, he hates ice fishing in Snowdon, that dinner party, and that iceberg.

Although whether staring blankly into nothingness and eating nothing counted as mourning or not, he had no idea.

He has gone over Carpathia five times. All the ship's officers know him as that "John Watson" man. His mind is now set completely on revenge, revenge against Victor Trevor.

The survivors disembark Carpathia at the Cunard pier. Over 30,000 people line the dock and fill the surrounding streets. The magnesium flashes of the photographers go off like small bombs, lighting an amazing tableau. Several hundred police keep the mob back. The dock is packed with friends and relatives, officials, ambulances, and the press reporters and photographers swarm everywhere, at the foot of the gangways, lining the tops of cars and trucks, it is the 1912 equivalent of a media circus. They jostle to get close to the survivors, tugging on them as they pass and shouting over each other to ask them questions.

Sherlock is covered with a woollen blanket and walking with a group of steerage passengers. Immigration officers are asking them questions as they come off the gangway.

"Can I take your name, lad?"

Sherlock turns to him, and at the clipboard. He is just about to say 'William Sherlock Scott Holmes' but he stops, and looks into the young immigration officer's eyes. That was the name of a suicidal Omega a lifetime ago. 'Sherlock Holmes' is the name John knows his Omega by, and only he is allowed that. Was allowed that. No one else.

"Basil," he whispers the first thing that comes to his mind, "Charles John Basil."

John always saw him as independent. And he was. All in but one way. The Bond wasn't broken, and if he was to remain tied to a dead man, so be it. He will do all the things John wanted him to. He will go to a university.

He would be Charles John Basil, the Beta, not Sherlock Holmes, the Omega.

The officer steers him toward a holding area for processing. Sherlock walks forward with the dazed immigrants. The exposure of photographer's magnesium flashes cause them to flinch, and the glare is blinding. There is a sudden disturbance near him as two men burst through the cordon, running to embrace an older woman along the survivors, who cries out with joy. The reporters converge on this emotional scene, and more flashes explode.

Sherlock uses this moment to slip away into the crowd. He pushes through the jostling people, moving with purpose, and none challenge him in the confusion. The photographers' flashes go off like a battle behind him.

Alone is what he has now. Alone will always protect him.

The inquiries into the disaster begins the next day in Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, New York, the hotel which was previously owned by John Jacob Astor and his cousin William Waldorf Astor. Sherlock goes to the first three proceedings, although he doesn't know why. He watches Mr. Ismay and the Captain of RMS Carpathia appearing in the witness box. He watches the inventor Guglielmo Marconi and Titanic's officer Lightoller give their statements. He sees Victor give his statement and his affidavit. He sees Mycroft give his statement, and sitting with Andrea and Mrs. Hudson at quite a distance from the Trevor family. The inquiry shifts to Washington D.C. He has little money, all those that were his savings. He stays in a small motel, thinking his future, about his university plans when it arrives.

A telegram. Like a miracle, like the Star of Bethlehem. Sherlock doesn't know how it reached him, but it was addressed to Charles John Basil.

Asking him to appear in the inquiry into Titanic's disaster in Washington D.C. Sherlock sucks in a breath, his anger returning to him in full measure. He wires back to them, that he'll appear. Against Victor Trevor. He'll ruin him for everything he has done to him.

* * *

"After the recess," he hears Senator Smith's voice, "I should like to have Mr. Basil appear before us for a few minutes."

Sherlock grits his teeth; he has been sitting there since ten-thirty in the morning, reading a cheap organic chemistry journal that he has managed to scavenge from near the university campus. He has gone over it three times. He hasn't bothered to disguise himself. He knows that after today, he will not need to hide anymore, except the Beta scent and the suppressors that he prepares in the university lab whenever he can sneak inside. He knows that after today, he'll return to London, and stay there. Forever.

He doesn't know that the few minutes will be a gross understatement. He is sworn by Senator Smith and then the inquiry starts.

"First state your full name, please?"

"Charles John Basil."

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen-and-a-half on June eighth," he looks around at the hall. Victor and Mycroft have recognised him, their faces struck with horror and amazement respectively as Mycroft realises what he is about to do.

"Did you sail on the Titanic?"

Sherlock grits his teeth. Why the hell would he be sent a telegram if his name wasn't... yes, of course, his name wasn't there on the boarding passengers' list.

"Yes."

"From what port?"

Sherlock decides that he could admire this man. He did know how to handle an inquiry properly.

"Southampton."

Senator Smith looks down at the paper in front of him, "I wish you would tell the committee why your name isn't there on the passenger list."

Sherlock swallows before continuing, looking straight into Victor's eyes with the promise of utter destruction in his, "Basil isn't my real name, Senator. I was on the run from someone who threatened to destroy my life and almost succeeded in doing so. But we're here for the inquiry for Titanic, aren't we?"

Senator Smith looks appalled at the impertinent manner of the young Beta, and then gives a small cough, "Under what name did you board the RMS Titanic?"

"Holmes. William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"Can you name anyone who can testify to that?"

He looks at Mycroft again, who gives him a small nod, "Yes, my brother, Mycroft Holmes, who is present in this hall at this very moment."

"I will now ask Mr. Mycroft Holmes to come forward and take the stand."

He watches his brother's haunted eyes as he is sworn to the chairman.

"Mr. Holmes," says Senator Smith, riffling through the pages of writing which recorded Mycroft's testimony, "you had said that your brother, William Holmes, had perished with the ship."

"I believed so, Senator," says he, his eyes still on his brother, on his rough, unkempt figure, "I had asked Carpathia's crew for him, but they all replied in negative."

"Is this your brother, then?"

"He is."

"That is all. Thank you very much."

"Thank you, senator." Sherlock watches his brother resume his place beside Andrea, revelling in the surprise that he has caused him.

"Mr. Holmes-"

"Basil," Sherlock insists.

"Mr. Basil, will you kindly tell the Committee the circumstances surrounding your voyage, and, as succinctly as possible, beginning with your going aboard the vessel at Southampton, your place on the ship on the voyage, together with any circumstances you feel would be helpful to us in this inquiry?"

"I certainly will."

"I understand that you were a First Class passenger?"

"Yes."

"In what part of the ship were your quarters?"

"My quarters were on B deck. I was in B-52 with my... ex-fiancé, Mr. Trevor."

Senator Smith frowns, as if wanting to ask if Sherlock if he were an Omega, but he feels that it is unnecessary, given the nature of the inquiry, "I wish you would tell the reporter about-"

"Yes, I would," he overrides the senator impatiently, "I boarded the RMS Titanic on the 10th of April along with my brother, his secretary and our housekeeper. Victor Trevor and his manservant also accompanied us. It was about 11:35 when we boarded the ship. We had our tickets on Mauretania, but Victor changed our reservations at the last moment."

"So, you weren't a voluntary passenger on the Titanic?" he asks Sherlock, still shrouded in mystery about what might have happened that led Sherlock to change his name within a week of the sinking.

"In a manner of speaking, no. I didn't wish to go on at all. I was forced to go aboard, just like I was forced into a marriage in which I had no say, just like Victor Trevor forced me into bed even when I didn't want to be."

The hall lets out an appalled gasp at that as Sherlock triumphantly watches Victor sink lower into his chair, trying to deflect Sherlock's master blow to his reputation.

"Mr. Basil, that is a matter for the law court. I wish you to stick to what exactly happened on the day of the sinking."

Sherlock doesn't counter with anything else. He knows that the press will carry his news and eventually destroy Victor Trevor. He knows what sort of a woman Molly Brown is, and that if she heard of it, she would surely write about it, the feminist in her would never remain subdued.

"Of course."

"Go ahead and tell-"

He overrides Senator Smith again, "On 14th April, Mr. Thomas Andrews, the ship's architect led us on a tour of the ship. We were informed of the severe shortage of lifeboats and of the fact that the crew hadn't had a proper drill with the davits."

"Will you tell us what he exactly said?"

"I'm unable to quote him word to word, but he did say that the lifeboats could carry only half the people. He explained to me that by the maritime laws, the White Star Line did provide more lifeboat accommodation than was required by the laws."

"Those were his words?"

"More or less, yes. He also informed me about the various other safety precautions that had been planned by him, but he had been overruled."

"Overruled? Did he mention any name?"

Sherlock thinks hard whether he should answer that, "No, senator. All he told me was that he had suggested that the watertight bulkheads be extended till B Deck instead of E Deck."

"Are you sure about this?"

Sherlock throws him a death glare, "Of course."

"Please proceed."

"We were also given a tour of the enclosed wheelhouse. During the tour, one of the operators came to deliver to Captain Smith an ice warning."

"Ice warning?"

"A Marconigram, to be precise, from the 'Baltic'."

"Do you remember the operator, who he might be?"

"I think that the Captain called him Bride."

"What action did the Captain take then?"

"He took it from him, glanced at it, and put it back in his pocket, and told us that we had nothing to worry about, and that we were speeding up. Mr-"

"Are those his words, Mr. Basil?"

Sherlock looks at him, very annoyed at having being interrupted, "Yes. He said that he had just ordered the last boilers lit."

"Did I understand you to say that she was speeding up on the day of the sinking?"

"That's for you to decide."

Senator Smith looks outraged, and Sherlock hastens to correct himself, hearing John's imaginary voice telling him about manners, "Yes, sir."

"Was the Captain, by any chance, intoxicated during the dusk when he said that to you?"

"It didn't appear such."

"You said Mr. Andrews was also there with you?"

"Yes."

"What action did he take?"

"He had a word with the Captain. I do not know what happened after that."

"Please proceed."

"I spent the entire evening in the company of..." Sherlock stops for a second, because his entire evening revolves around John after that. He wants to tell the world how John saved him from all that he was getting sucked into. John deserves to be immortalized, not just remain a figment of his memory. But in the end, it makes him feel even more hollow than ever, "my friend, until we saw the iceberg strike the ship at about eleven-forty."

"You _saw_ the iceberg?" He asks him incredulously.

"Yes. We were at the well deck, when we felt a shudder run through the ship, and we saw the iceberg sail right past the ship."

"What did you do then?"

"We stayed on the boat deck for some time, and then while going up, we heard Mr. Andrews and the Captain talking about the checking the ship's damage."

"Can you recall the details of the conversation that you caught?"

"They were talking about pumps. That's all I could gather."

"After that?"

"Victor got my... friend arrested on false accusations so that he could claim me without my wishes again. My brother drove him away, and then a steward appeared and asked us to put on the lifebelts, saying that it was Captain's orders.

"We waited near the Grand Staircase and then we were whisked to the port side, where Mr. Lightoller was filling the boats according to the Omegas, women and children only policy. My brother's secretary got on, our housekeeper and Mrs. Margaret Brown got on, but I stayed behind to find my companion, who was in the Master-at-Arms' cabin on E Deck."

"Women and children _only_ ? Not _first."_

"Yes. Not first. He might have misunderstood the Captain's orders."

Ignoring Sherlock's suggestion, Smith continues, "Am I to understand that the arrest was made during the sinking?"

"Yes."

"And how was the scene on the boat deck?"

"There was no organisation whatsoever. Most of the Alphas allowed their Omegas and their wives to board the boats calmly, with no sense of the disaster at all."

"Please proceed."

"There were a lot of steerage people there that were getting on one of these cranes that they had on deck. They can lift about two and a half tons, I believe. These steerage passengers were crawling along on this, over the railing, and away up to the boat deck. A lot of them were doing that."

"They could not get up there in any other way?"

"The gates were shut. We couldn't go out."

"Was it locked?"

"Yes. The stewards were not allowing us to go up to the boat deck. The crewmen down there were pushing them back, shoving and punching them. One of them even pointed a smallish revolver at the crowd."

"Revolver?"

"Yes, they did, believing that they had an angry mob.

"Then we uprooted a bench and pushed it through the collapsible gate, and we were finally escorted to the boat deck, starboard side. There we were reunited with my brother, and I forced my companion to get on a boat. Subsequently, Victor Trevor joined us as I watched my companion go down. He told us that he had an arrangement with a ship's officer."

"Arrangement?" The chairman asks a little too sharply than he intends to, "Can you expand on that?"

"I should imagine something to do with bribing an officer of the ship."

Sherlock inwardly enjoys the plethora of accusing glares shooting towards Victor. The latter says nothing, knowing that he'd be immediately overruled. Senator Smith nods at him, asking him to get on with his testimony.

"Can you recall the name of the Officer?"

"I'm afraid I don't know."

"Please continue."

"I think my companion knew about the vile deed that Victor had attempted on me, and so he climbed out of the lifeboat and scrambled towards me. Victor attempted to shoot us with his revolver after that, but his efforts were only successful in driving us back to E Deck. He also sent his manservant after us, but we somehow managed reach aft through the First Class Smoking Room. Mr. Andrews was there, and he told us that he was going to go down with the ship. We tried to talk him out of it, but he simply gave us his lifebelt and wished us good luck.

"We somehow got on to the boat deck, but all the boats had gone by then, and the remaining Collapsibles were overturned in the sea. So we could see the water coming up, the bow of the ship was going down, and there was an explosion. We couldn't have got off, because the suction would pull us down anyway. So, we remained on the ship, and we made it to the base of the flagpole at the stern.

"The deck raised up and became so steep that the people could not stand on their feet on the deck. So they fell down and slid on the deck into the water right on the ship. And then, the ship plummeted back into position, and began sinking more rapidly as the ship became completely vertical. The lights had already gone out.

"We had to jump, and we were pulled underwater initially, but then I managed to rise, whereas my companion... he got lost. I couldn't find him again. I managed with the cold somehow, because I had had a considerable amount of brandy. I was trying to swim," Sherlock feels an overwhelming string of words coming from during the period of anguish and terror that he has felt, "and then there was a man - lots of them were floating around - and he got me on the neck and pressed me under, senselessly trying to get on top of me."

The hall is filled with silence as they listen to the nail-biting and horrifying experience that Sherlock has had during the sinking. Mycroft hasn't changed his position since the last time Sherlock has set his eyes upon him.

"This companion of yours-?"

"He was a Third Class passenger, and the bravest and the kindest and the most honourable Alpha I've ever had the good fortune to meet," Sherlock finds himself defending John's memories before the chairman can finish his question.

The Senator seems to understand, and says in a gentler tone, "Please continue."

"I searched for him throughout the night, throughout the icy water. I got on a engraved door that I used a raft. Officer Wilde was there with me, and he was blowing his whistle, calling out to the boats. Fifteen hundred people went into the sea when Titanic sank from under us. There were twenty boats floating nearby and only one came back. Six were saved from the water, myself included. Six out of fifteen hundred.

"Afterwards, the seven hundred people in the boats had nothing to do but wait... wait to die, wait to live."

"Who was in charge of the boat?"

"Officer Lowe, to my best knowledge, and a steward whom I didn't know, along with a fireman and a First Class passenger. We were rescued by Carpathia by about quarter past seven. Then we were helped aboard Carpathia by Officer Lowe."

"Did you see any icebergs on that morning?"

"I saw three big ones. They were quite far away."

"I want to direct your attention again to the steerage," asked Senator Smith, "Do you think the passengers in the steerage and in the bow of the boat had an opportunity to get out and up on the decks, or were they held back?"

"Like I said, we had to break some of the gates to gain access to the upper parts of the ship."

"You said that a number of them climbed up-?"

"That was on the top, on the deck; after they got on the deck," Sherlock snarls at his stupidity, "That was in order to get up on this boat deck."

"Onto the top deck?"

He tries his best not to roll his eyes, "Onto the top deck; yes."

"Do you think the steerage passengers in your part of the ship all got out?"

"Of course not. I already told you, we were held down."

"Did that part of the ship fill rapidly with water?"

"Yes, the rate trebled as the time passed."

"That is all. We are very much obliged to you."

* * *

Sherlock tries to walk out of there fast, but Victor catches hold of his arm, and spins him towards him angrily. Sherlock tries to push him away, but he finds that he cannot. Victor is still too strong for him.

"What did I ever do to you?" He snarls in his face, "How dare you appear against me, and lie away like that?!"

"I lied?! Did you not try to rape me?"

Victor catches hold of his arm again, "No! Because you were my Omega, and I could do anything that I could please-"

But all his Dominance is lost as the press and the reporters crash upon him, wanting to confirm what they have heard inside. Sherlock resists the temptation to throw him a smirk, and walks away before Victor and Mycroft can catch up with him. He has had his revenge at last: shaming Victor in public. He is finally free.

As he turns around the alley, he knows that someone is following him. He turns around to see a tall, broad shouldered figure walk past him to the next alley. Sherlock hurries up after him, but the man is gone. He suddenly gets the ominous feeling that it isn't the end of his adventures.

* * *

**I wanted to stick to BBC canon, so I did this. I hope you don't hate this. There's lots of spy work and the First World War following. War... you know, hope you get the clue :)**

**I'm so excited for the ending!**


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